


Out of the Woods

by petrodactyl352



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), Castlevania (Netflix), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: ...literally, Adrian is a disaster bisexual, Adrian is the mom friend, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, But when does it not, Canon-Typical Violence, Carmilla is a Bad Bitch™️, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Folklore, Foreshadowing, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, Multi, Mutual Pining, OT3, Porn, Pre-OT3, Slow Burn, Sypha gets a backstory, The Belmonts have skeletons in their closets, The church fucking sucks, Threesome - F/M/M, Tropes, but make it with feelings, read the notes, so much foreshadowing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2019-11-03 19:32:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 208,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17883869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrodactyl352/pseuds/petrodactyl352
Summary: None of them are who they're meant to be—a hunter, a scholar, and a soldier. Homesick for places they've never been, and for people they've never met. Each of them craves a different thing that's still somehow the same, and in searching for it they stumble upon each other, not knowing that when they do, they finally find what they've been looking for all along.





	1. Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, everyone! I'm back with more OT3 content, and LOTS of it. *rubs hands together evilly*
> 
> And for the first time, it's an actual, long, plot-filled story, and I have no idea where it's gonna go. I have a vague idea of the whole thing, but who knows how that'll turn out? So please expect lots of weirdness. 
> 
> **[Edit, Chapter 23: Welp, looks like the rating bumped up to explicit. It was a long time coming, but it happened. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯]**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Stars:** _Steady light, a straight path, unchanging and invariable._

**_Trevor_ **

The wind had changed direction. 

It was the first thing he noticed, the first thing that made him tilt his head to the side and close his eyes. Yes, it had definitely changed direction—from south to north, just barely. It whispered softly through the trees, kissing his skin before curling and dissolving into the air. And he knew what that meant—it meant that now his scent was blowing away from the forest rather than towards it. 

He opened his eyes, his lips parting. He could practically taste the air on his tongue, the fresh, earthen tang of the forest and the wild lands beyond the walls of his home. It was the taste of freedom, and it made his mouth water. 

He ducked back into his room, leaving the doors of the balcony open behind him as he did. Cutting quickly across the room to where his cupboard stood, he threw it open, then yanked open a small, unassuming drawer at the very bottom. Carefully removing the false bottom he'd added, he drew out the glimmering black coils of his leather whip, stamped on the handle with a golden Belmont crest. Looping it in quick, efficient coils, he hung it on the belt at his hip, tucking it out of sight.

Once the cupboard was firmly closed, he moved over to the fireplace, kneeling by the hearth. Digging his nails into the loose fourth tile, he lifted it, baring a small patch of wooden floor just deep enough to accommodate his short sword. Gingerly lowering the tile, he slid the sheath of his sword at his waist, in reach of his left hand. Standing, he moved towards the open balcony again, pausing only to grab his cloak, which he slung over his shoulders to hide the family crest stitched into his shirt and on his back, effectively covering his weapons as well.

He kicked the covers across his bed, then doused the lamps, bathing the room in darkness. He swept towards the balcony, leaving the doors open behind him as he leaped onto the railing, his fingers encircling the metal tight enough for it to bite into his palms. He glanced downwards, at the line of his mother's meticulous, immaculately cultivated rosebushes that ran along the inner compound wall. It was a fairly long drop to the ground, but he was too used to it to care. 

Releasing the railing, he dropped silently to the ground, landing in a slight crouch just shy of the rosebushes. A dull wave of pain radiated from his ankles upwards, and his knees ached from the impact, but it was a feeling he was so used to now that he barely felt it. He set off, quickly working out the kinks in his smarting ankles and knees with a few quick steps.

Casting a cursory glance upwards at the side of the house to make sure all the windows were dark, he slunk into the shadows, his footsteps near-silent on the perfectly leveled lawn. He ducked into the looming shadows of the massive compound wall, pressing himself flat against it as he moved carefully around the side of the house. 

_Seventy-eight... seventy-nine... eighty... eighty-one._ He tapped the slabs as he counted them, finding the right one. There was a sizable chunk missing from it that had been hastily filled with creepers and bougainvillea that spilled bright fuchsia blossoms across the buttery stone, but he'd discovered it almost immediately. Carefully squeezing himself through the crack, he managed not to get a faceful of pollen as he emerged on the other side—officially no longer on Belmont soil. 

He set off into the woods, swallowed immediately by the shadows the trees cast on the ground. He kept to the line of the trees where the compound wall was still visible, swiftly moving away from the manor. He followed the wall until it melted into the massive, wrought-iron gates that was the front of the estate, with the intricately linked patterns of metal forming a cross melded into both the gates. Casting one last look back at it, he plunged into the forest. 

He moved east, keeping as close to the edge of the trees as possible. He had only walked about a mile when he caught sight of the distant lights of the nearest village, glowing merrily in the stillness. Another half mile and he cleared the woods, moving towards the village, head down. The grass and leaves underfoot turned to dirt and gravel, his boots crunching loudly on the surface. 

The first few times he'd come here he'd gotten blatant stares—he was easily distinguishable from the shabby village-folk and peasants, them with their loose cotton clothes and worn shoes, and work-lined faces and hair that was graying at the ends, no matter their age. And Trevor with his fur-trimmed cloak and clearly expensive tunic, face young and unlined. 

But once he'd started showing up every single night without fail, they had gotten used to his presence, and some of them nodded in his direction as he trudged through the streets. He'd been fourteen, the first time he'd come here, and these people had watched him grow up, turn from a scrawny boy into a less-scrawny teenager, and then into a man, taller and broader than most of the men in the village. 

He found the tavern fairly easily—after all, it was the only tavern in the village—and shouldered the door open, moving inside. He got an ale from the bar, then slunk off to his usual corner, hiding his face in the fur of his cloak and the rim of his tankard. The group of men who were not far away didn't pay him any heed, half-drunk as they already were. 

He drank slowly, listening to the men talk, waiting. It was probably an hour or so after midnight, so they must have been there a while. He might not get what he was there for, but he waited stubbornly all the same, finishing off his ale. Moving towards the bar to get another, he was on his way back to his table when he heard one of the men speak again. 

"And 'e just vanished," he slurred loudly. "Didn't come home for days, his mother said. Devastated, she was. Cried 'er eyes out all evenin'—and then they found 'im." His voice lowered ominously.

"What d'you mean, _found_?"

"I mean they found his body," said the man sagely, and there was a low murmur. Trevor stopped in his tracks, his whole body tensing. _Another one?_

"Same as the last few," said the man. "Chest ripped open, heart missin'. It's all shit. But this one—this one was different. I saw his body with me own eyes—it's not natural, none of it is."

"What was wrong with this one?" another asked, looking morbidly fascinated by the whole affair. The rest of the men had similar expressions on their faces, and the man telling the story looked fairly smug that he'd managed to captivate his audience to such a degree. "Well, he was smiling like a fool in love, warn't he?"

Trevor felt his brows furrow. _Smiling?_

"He was _what_?" a man demanded. 

"Smiling," said the man, sounding complacent. "Content and happy, he looked. Except for the fact that he was torn open from the neck down. Unnatural, it was." He sighed, then went on. "Well, o'course his mother was terribly upset, the lad was only eighteen, barely even a man—"

Trevor stomped over to their table, slamming his tankard down onto it and grabbing the man by his shirt collar. "Where'd they find the body?" he demanded. "Were there any tracks, made by the blood?"

The man struggled feebly. "What's your problem, you bastard?" he shrieked. "Lemme go!"

"Not until you tell me where they found him." He shook the man slightly—the force was, he knew, unnecessary, but it was the only way to get answers from a man half out of his mind from drink and shock. "And whether there were tracks, or any weird substances around the body—you saw it, didn't you?"

"They found it at the stream!" He flailed, trying to dislodge Trevor's grip. "Just at the bank by the big old fig tree—and there warn't no tracks or no shit like that, I can't remember, just get your fucking hands off me!"

Trevor let him go slowly, mind whirling. "By the fig tree? Which one, there's probably two hundred fig trees by the stream—"

"It's the oldest tree in the forest," said the barmaid, nodding at him from behind the bar, where she was wiping a glass with a threadbare cloth. He whirled to face her, narrowing his eyes. "It's about half a mile into the forest, east. You can't miss it."

He dropped her a nod, pulling away from the table and tossing a coin onto the bar before striding out of the tavern, moving towards the woods again. He cut through the village easily, long legs carrying him across in a matter of minutes. He left the warmth and safety of the village behind, heading quickly towards the forest. He stopped short just at the edge of the trees, holding his breath. 

He glanced up at the sky, where the moon shone above, a perfect silver semicircle. It had risen well above an hour ago, and was setting now—setting between south-west and north-west. And having rose between north-east and south-east... He held a hand up to the sky, measuring the distance with his finger. Slowly, he pointed downwards, having determined the direction from the sky. So east lay directly in front of him, then. 

The forest yawned open in front of him, the pure blackness of the lateness of the hour like black ink filling every available space. Half a mile... he'd never been so deep into the woods before, but he would have to brave it this time. Taking a deep breath, he took off running through the trees.

* * *

The wind tore through his cloak, making it flap behind him like the dusky wings of a dragon. He didn't break his pace, racing through the undergrowth, the only sound around him the light tread of his strides and the harshness of his breaths as they sawed in and out of his lungs. Something about the silence made him uneasy, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. 

Finally, about twenty minutes after he'd started running, he heard the faint sounds of water running and crashing through a crevice. Another ten minutes and then the stream came into view, the water nearly black in the dimness. He slowed, then came to a stop by the banks, doubling over to catch his breath. He looked around, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, and caught sight of the fig tree.

The barmaid had been right—it _was_ hard to miss. It was easily the largest tree he had ever seen, its massive, knotted trunk leaning over the river as if to cradle it in its boughs. It was wide but short, and its branches were splayed wide, nearly covering the width of the whole river. 

He moved towards it, kneeling at the tangle of roots. He could still see a bit of blood that the villagers hadn't cleaned up, flaking off the bark. He rubbed at it with a finger, brows furrowed. So this was where they'd found the body... the roots that broke the surface of the ground were so convoluted that they formed a sort of cradle at the base of the trunk, an interwoven depression. 

His finger caught on a splinter in the bark and he winced, feeling a cut open up on his fingertip. He was just about to put his finger in his mouth when something on the bark caught his eye—another drop of blood, this one higher up. His eyes narrowed as he stood, moving around the side of the tree, discovering another smear of blood on the roots on the opposite side of the tree. 

It was at least three feet away from where the body had been found. Maybe even five. There was no way such a large smear of blood could get away from a body so far away. Unless... 

Unless someone had moved it.

He exhaled harshly, stepping back. He placed a hand flat on the trunk, eyes roving over its gnarled surface. He peered up into the branches, which spread every which way above him. It was dark, and he couldn't see anything up there, just the gentle sway of the leaves as the wind rustled them from their slumber. He bit his lip, feeling trepidation crawl up his spine. He didn't want to climb it, but he had to. 

He had just placed his foot on the first knot to heave himself up into the branches when he heard a faint rustle behind him. 

He froze. 

Slowly, so slowly that his movements were nearly undetectable, he slid his hand beneath his cloak, his fingers wrapping around the handle of his whip. The supple leather molded to his palm, fitting perfectly to his skin. His ears strained for any other sounds, his whole body tense as a drawn bowstring. 

Another rustle sounded out from behind him. 

He grit his teeth, slowly lowering himself from the trunk, placing both feet on the ground, slightly apart to guarantee balance. He heard several more faint sounds, then a sudden silence that told him whoever it was treading so carelessly was directly behind him. He glanced backwards out of the corner of his eye, not moving or turning his head. The silence had gone on for far too long. Any minute...

Another soft breath of wind moved past him and he turned at lightning speed, sweeping his arm out in a deadly arc. His whip snaked outwards faster than light, a blur of black. It whistled through the air, connecting solidly with its target—something pale and slender and tall. There was a loud, cracking sound of impact, and then a cry of pain.

He blinked. It was a very human cry. Low, masculine, startled more than hurt. There was a faint thud as whatever—or whoever—he had hit fell to the ground, then lay there unmoving and still. 

_Shit,_ thought Trevor. _Did I just kill a human?_

He hurried forward, a sort of incredulous panic rising in his chest. He dropped to his knees beside the person he'd hit—because he could see now that it was indeed a person, one with skin so pale in the moonlight it was like paper, and hair that looked silver but was most likely blond, that was fanned artfully around their head, bright and lustrous against the leaves and dirt of the ground. 

It wasn't a woman, that was for sure; their form wasn't voluptuous enough, and moreover they were dressed like a man, in a long coat and trousers. He caught hold of their shoulder, making to roll them over so that he could get a good look into their face. 

The moment he touched their shoulder there was a bright blur of gold and black and white, and suddenly Trevor found himself lying flat on his back, something sending him down hard, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped as he felt a hard, painful pressure on his chest, and something pinning his legs. 

The person he'd hit with his whip was bearing down on him, pinning him to the ground—having somehow gotten up with incredible speed. Their long blond curls tumbled over his shoulders and onto Trevor's chest, tickling his throat. One of their forearms was pressed against his windpipe, the other fisted into his hair, pulling his head back to bare his throat. 

Their face was inches from Trevor's—and he'd been right, it _was_ a man—but not fully. A sharp face, made up by sweeping cheekbones and dramatic angles, impossibly pale. Large, wide-set eyes the color of amber; a dark, intriguing gold shot through with lighter chips of honey and copper. Soft, full lips that were pulled back in a snarl—to expose the long, deadly fangs that were an inch from Trevor's throat. A low growl filled the air, rumbling through Trevor's chest where it was pressed against his attacker's.

He grit his teeth. _A vampire. Just what I need._

"Who are you?" demanded the vampire, glaring at him. His grip on Trevor's hair tightened, pulling his head up further to expose more of his throat. "What are you doing here? Are you the one who's been killing all those people?"

"What?" The question threw him entirely off guard. "No, of course not—" He recovered, struggling in the vampire's grip. "I should be asking you that, bloodsucker," he snapped. "What were you hoping for, a midnight snack?"

The vampire hissed. "So if you didn't kill them, what are you doing here, then?"

"I came here to _stop_ whatever's killing all those people," he snarled, struggling with more vigor. "If I'd known there was a vampire lurking about I'd have brought my holy water."

The vampire's eyes widened fractionally. "A hunter?" The corner of his sculpted lips pulled up into a sardonic smile. "Well, well. Who would've thought there were more of you little things scurrying about? I thought you'd all died out, or turned soft."

"Tough shit for all you leeches, then, I take it," Trevor snapped back, not wanting to give away the fact that the vampire was right. "There's plenty of us." 

Well, that part was _technically_ true. 

"A hunter," repeated the vampire. "So you're... not the one killing those young men, then." He slowly let Trevor go, who immediately scrambled into a sitting position, lunging for his whip—which wasn't where he'd dropped it. He looked up, and saw the vampire holding it in his long, slender fingers, turning it over in his hands and examining it. 

He was so surprised that he couldn't even bother being angry. "How the fuck are you doing that?"

The vampire looked up, blinking. "Doing what?"

He gestured. "Holding my whip. It's consecrated."

The vampire made a little "Oh!" sound, then quickly tossed the whip back, gingerly holding his hands in front of him. "I didn't realize."

"It should..." _Burn you. Slice your skin open. Split your veins. Not leave you totally unharmed._ He narrowed his eyes, tucking his suspicions away for the time being. "Never mind. So what're _you_ doing here?"

The vampire shrugged. "Same as you. Looking for whatever killed those people. There have been... five in total so far, yes?"

"'So far'?" he echoed. "You mean you know there'll be more."

He rolled his eyes. "If it were vampires doing the killing, then the bodies would be exsanguinated, you know," he huffed. "There's been plenty of blood in the bodies that were found, just the hearts have been missing. We don't eat people's hearts, for God's sake."

"Huh. Fine." He coiled his whip, hanging it at his belt. He knew he should have been trying to kill this vampire, that it was his job, that he was _supposed_ to kill vampires. But something seemed different about this vampire, something that went beyond just his benevolent motive. "I've been looking into this since it's started, and there's nothing in common with the victims."

He turned to look at Trevor, opaque. "You come out here often, then?" he asked. He jerked his head in the general direction of the village. "I assume that's your usual haunt." He wrinkled his perfect nose. "You reek of alcohol."

"I didn't even drink that much," protested Trevor. "Anyway, yeah, I get information off the locals and kill whatever bothers them. There's been plenty in the years I've been here. Goblins, spirits, werewolves." He ticked them off his fingers as he said them. "You name it."

Golden eyes narrowed. "Vampires?"

Trevor gave a guilty shrug. "Can't say I haven't gutted a few of you in my day," he said. "But only the nasty ones, I promise."

"Hmm." He frowned at Trevor. "And you've been hunting here for how long, exactly?"

"I came here when I was fourteen," he said. Sometimes, the best lies were based on the truth. "Every single night since then. Turns out there's been plenty for me to keep busy with."

"And if there's nothing?" The vampire cocked a brow. "A coin for the maid and a tumble in the barn, I suppose." He turned away before Trevor could answer, shaking his head at the blood on the tree. "I've been observing these kills since the second one," he said. "I've looked at everything, but nothing makes any sense."

"Well, did you hear about that fucking creepy thing about this latest body?" asked Trevor, nodding at the speckles of blood on the roots. 

The vampire turned to him, a curious expression on his face. "What is it?"

"Apparently this guy was smiling," said Trevor. "They found his body and he was smiling. It's weird as hell."

The vampire looked mildly horrified. " _Smiling_?"

"Yeah." He knelt, shaking his head, biting his lip. "So he was... smiling, while whatever ripped him open. I can't really think of anything else that might substantiate that."

The vampire huffed out a laugh. "Dear God," he said softly. "That's... that's... disturbing," was all he managed. Trevor moved to stand next to him by the tree trunk again. "So d'you have any theories?"

"It's far too soon to say." His voice was smooth, sophisticated. It had the faint accent of aristocracy, and more than a little haughtiness to back up that theory. "All we know is that the victims are all young men, and that their hearts have been torn out of their chests—that's not much to go by."

"It could've just been a wild wolf or something," shrugged Trevor. "But five times is way too many to be a coincidence, or a wild animal attack."

"And moreover, the wolves in this forest aren't savage," the vampire said wisely, and not without some defensiveness, as if he personally knew the wolves of the forest and had asked their opinion or something. "They wouldn't kill unprovoked."

"Great. That makes... how many leads? Oh, that's right," said Trevor. "None." He moved over to the other side of tree. "There's blood all the way here," he said. "The body was dragged. That, or he was killed up there"—he pointed to the top of the tree—"and tossed down here." He pointed to the roots. 

"Hmm." The vampire moved to stand next to him, placing a gloved hand on the trunk. "Perhaps." He raised his head, golden eyes narrowing. "There's something unnatural about this," he murmured. "I can't smell anything."

" _Smell_ anything?" He snorted. "No wonder you're such pals with the wolves."

That earned him a glare and an exasperated huff. "I'm not _pals with the wolves,_ " he snapped. But, Trevor noted with amusement that his cheeks were rather pink. "And vampires do have keen senses of smell and hearing, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," grinned Trevor. "So what can't you smell?"

"Anything. That's just it." He leaned closer to the tree, his shoulder brushing against Trevor's. He was slightly taller than Trevor, by about an inch and a half, and more slender too. "No scent besides the deceased. Whoever killed him was either unimaginably good at covering their tracks, or..."

"Or what?"

"Or not human," finished the vampire. 

"God, you vampires are so dramatic." Trevor stepped back, examining the tree for any more clues. "We already established it wasn't very well human, unless people have suddenly gained access to weapons that'll tear open someone's chest."

"Even so..." murmured the vampire enigmatically, apparently determined to ride out his 'dark and quietly mysterious vampire' persona. "It is strange."

"Well, no shit." He straightened up again, only to see the vampire turn around to glare at him, hands on his hips. "I'm not sure anyone's told you," he said hotly, dropping his cloak-and-dagger act, "but you are entirely insufferable."

"Oh, I get told that every day," he grinned. "I just don't care."

"Ugh." The vampire turned around again. "What's your name, anyway?" he asked, reaching out to put a hand on the tree again. 

Trevor hesitated for half a second. "Trevor Chasseur." 

"French?" The vampire turned around, a golden brow raised, and Trevor shrugged. "So what?"

He only blinked, expressionless. "Nothing." He glided towards Trevor, holding out a slim, pale hand. "Alucard Fahrenheit," he offered. 

And Trevor, who had no idea why he didn't knock this vampire's— _Alucard's_ —hand away or tell him that he was a hunter, that he didn't consort with vampires or even touch them unless he was there to kill them, reached out and shook it. 

His skin was cool and smooth, and the handshake was brief if not formal. Of course, it didn't matter that he'd lied about his name and had simply called himself 'Hunter' in French—which he thought was absolutely hilarious, by the way—or that he didn't even know Alucard, who had the strangest last name. 

But it felt odd, as if despite the circumstance in which they'd met, and the fact that Alucard was a bloody _vampire_ —pun entirely intended—they'd part ways as more than just strangers, or acquaintances. Something about him nagged at Trevor's brain, but he seemed so stupidly _sincere_. And young. He could've been a thousand years old, being a vampire, but there was a sort of boyish energy around him that somehow contradicted that. 

"So, now what?" asked Trevor, and Alucard glanced upwards at the sky, which was still black. "It's getting late," he said. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" His eyes glinted. "Some pretty girl you need to placate?"

Trevor thought of his six sisters and his mother at home, and suppressed a grin. "Oh, you have no idea," he said. 

Alucard tilted his head to the side. "Then here we part ways, Trevor," he said. "I daresay if you're good at what you do, we'll see each other again." 

With that, he smiled like a cat, then in a flash of red light he vanished, leaving nothing behind but a faint imprint in the wind and a single fig leaf that sifted down to the ground where he had just been standing.

* * *

"God, you look even more depressed than usual," said Vayenne, frowning at Trevor with her hands on her hips. "What's the matter with you, did mother tell you again that it was about time you found a lovely girl and settle down?" She batted her eyelashes, grinning.

"Oh, shove off," he grumbled. "I hate these parties, that's all."

"Well, too bad." She plunked herself down next to him. Then she sobered slightly. "Hey, Trev... are you all right? You look like you haven't been sleeping."

He shrugged evasively. "I've been sleeping fine," he lied. "Just a bit tired."

She let the matter drop, nodding and leaning back. It was one of the reasons Vayenne was his favorite sister—she never pried, and she was a good listener. And sometimes he'd found himself nearly breaking and telling her that he'd been sneaking away from home every single night for eight years and being who he was supposed to, being a Belmont, being who he was.

He wanted to tell her about Alucard, too, about how he'd dreamed about him, the strange vampire with eyes like honey and a voice like velvet, and how he'd wake up with a gasp every time. It had been more than a week since he'd seen Alucard, and while they hadn't met again, he was still slowly making his way towards finding out what was killing those people. 

_If you're good at what you do, we'll see each other again,_ he had said. So far, it seemed as if he was at a standstill. 

"Vay," he said, and she turned, brows raised. "I, uh... wanted to tell you something."

Her brows rose higher. 

"I... met someone, the other day," he said haltingly. "It was when I'd gone out to get Chelsea's shells from the forest." 

"You met someone?" Her eyes widened. "Who? Was it a girl?"

He winced. "No, it wasn't."

Her lips pulled upwards. "Well?"

He cleared his throat. "I... we barely talked. We probably met for about fifteen minutes in total, but..." _I can't stop thinking about him._ "I just..."

"Well, was he handsome?" She grinned at him, and he huffed, turning away. He thought back to how he'd pinned Trevor to the ground, teeth poised at his throat, the weight of his slender body above Trevor's. His cheeks burned. _Handsome? Try fucking gorgeous,_ he thought. "Well, yeah," he allowed. 

"How did he look? Was he nice? What did you talk about? Come on, untie your knotted tongue, Trev," she laughed. 

He rolled his eyes. "I literally don't even know him," he said. "He's..." _Tall,_ his brain supplied. _Lush. Beautiful._ "Well, he's..."

He could see him so clearly it was like he was walking into the room as Trevor thought about him. Whipcord thin, but muscled, long pale hair that cascaded around his sharply planed face. A long, slender throat, and large citrine eyes fringed by lashes as long as spider's legs. 

Suddenly, beside him, Vayenne whistled. "Oh, my," she said. "That is one good-looking man." 

_I agree,_ thought Trevor blearily, and suddenly he stiffened in his seat, sitting up ramrod straight when he caught sight of who Vayenne had spoken about, someone who had just walked through the door. Tall, svelte, lots of pale blond hair, golden eyes... 

_No fucking way_.

"Trevor," called his mother's voice. "Vayenne, come here a moment, would you?" And then Vayenne grabbed his arm, pulling him along behind her. "Come on, don't drag your feet," she hissed. 

His father smiled at him as he and Vayenne stumbled over, and he put a hand on Trevor's shoulder. "My youngest, Trevor," he said to the three people standing in front of them—a man, impossibly tall and pale, with sheets of inky hair that tumbled around his face, and a woman beside him, presumably his wife, with familiar golden hair pulled into a loose braid. And beside her...

"This is Vlad Tepes, an old friend of your forefather's," his father went on, but Trevor was too busy staring in horror and disbelief. "And his wife, Lisa... and his son, Adrian."

Trevor's eyes found his, and they were just as wide. _Adrian Tepes_ —but he hadn't called himself that, had he? And Trevor Belmont hadn't called himself so, either. 

_Oh, shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feed me comments?? :D


	2. Contraries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Contraries:** _Progression, moving forward slowly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! Hope y'all enjoy. :)

**_Adrian_ **

_Oh, shit._

That was the first thing that Adrian thought.

Trevor Chasseur... Trevor Hunter. Oh, God. He'd _known_ there was something odd about that name. It was too uncommon to have. And he'd heard the word before. He knew the language, for God's sake. And the crest stamped in gold on his whip as well... it was the Belmont crest. Why hadn't he thought about that before? 

He was a Belmont. Trevor Belmont. 

So Adrian hadn't been the only one with a loose tongue that night. The Belmonts were no longer hunters—he was sure all their weapons and holy water and whips were safely locked away, but they probably hadn't counted on their one rebellious son. Who apparently snuck away every night to do what his family was supposed to do. 

His blue eyes were wide in his pale face as he stared at Adrian, who imagined he had a similar expression on his face. There was a pretty girl next to him, one who was clearly an elder sister—she had his hair, long brown tresses that fell straight down till her hips. There was a golden wedding band on her finger, and a circlet on her brow. 

There was a flurry of introduction, which passed in a bit of a blur, and then somehow he managed to politely break away from the group and move over to an empty table. Plucking a glass of wine from a tray, he sank down into a chair, still somewhat taken aback by the whole affair. He sipped a bit of wine, tasting the heady muskiness of it on his tongue. 

"So... Adrian Tepes, huh?"

He jumped, then winced, sighing as Trevor hooked an ankle behind a chair beside him and plunked himself down, arms crossed and a brow raised. 

"Trevor Belmont?" he shot back, scowling. Trevor raised his hands in surrender, a bit of a grin on his face. "I suppose you've uncovered the roots of my fake name?"

"The Belmonts are originally from France," Adrian muttered into his wineglass. "I imagine it must have been quite amusing for you to call yourself Hunter."

"Not as amusing as it must have been to call yourself _Alucard Fahrenheit,_ " he said cheerfully, then frowned, looking over at Adrian. "Why the hell did you call yourself Alucard Fahrenheit, anyway?"

Adrian coughed pointedly. "Well, I took my mother's maiden name, and, er... the nickname the village children gave me."

"They call you _Alucard_? What sort of nickname is that?"

He sighed, frustrated, feeling his cheeks burn. "Spell it backwards."

Trevor's brows furrowed as he worked it out, then his face cleared, his eyebrows shooting upwards. "Oh. That's... pretty cool, actually."

"I suppose. If you constantly wish to be compared to your father, that is." He swirled the wine in his glass around, gazing moodily at the contents. "It's all they do. It doesn't matter that I take after my mother, they'll always know me as Dracula's son and not Lisa's."

"Oh yeah, about that." Trevor frowned. "Why didn't you tell me that you're the son of the most powerful creature in the world? Slipped your mind or something?"

Adrian shrugged, looking away. "How would you have reacted? Would you have treated me with the same amount of ease?" He set the glass down on the table. "I didn't know who you were. I still don't, by the way. And if I had told you, I imagine you would have wondered how I was conceived. Awkward questions..."

"That's why you could touch my whip," Trevor mused aloud, leaning back and narrowing his eyes at Adrian. "You're only half-vampire."

He said nothing.

"And if I had to take a shot in the dark, I'd say you're not too old, either, judging by your mother." He nodded towards where Lisa was speaking with Marie Belmont, across the room. "I think it's a bit unlikely that you're hundreds of years old."

Adrian turned his nose up at Trevor. "I'm twenty-three, if you must know," he huffed. "Old enough to know what I'm doing, thank you very much. Nobody asked for your opinion, Belmont."

"So... son of Dracula and a human woman, and apparently just a fledgling. What else did you lie about?" asked Trevor candidly, and for some stupid reason, it struck a nerve. "I'm not the only one who lied," he snapped. "If anything, you lied more than I did. The Belmonts don't hunt monsters anymore, they've been forced into keeping quiet by the church. How long have you been lying to your own family about what you do every night?"

"Shut up," hissed Trevor, sitting up straight and glancing around furtively. "Keep your voice down, you idiot, someone might hear you—"

"See? Running from your own family." He shook his head. "You can't exactly run from them forever, Belmont."

"Oh, yeah?" He glared at Adrian, eyes flashing. "Watch me." With that, he kicked his chair back and stood haughtily, stalking away into the crowd. Adrian watched him go, feeling equal parts frustration and something else he couldn't quite identify writhing in his stomach. 

He didn't quite know what to make of Trevor Belmont—he was certainly rude, and crass, and foul-mouthed, and sarcastic and cynical and absolutely impossible. But he was also brave, and he cared about the people, enough that he was lying to his own family about it. He was trying to help them, in his own odd, though not thanked for, way. 

And damn him if he wasn't easy on the eyes as well.

He sighed, picking up his glass of wine and draining the rest of it one go. He had quite the tolerance for alcohol, but this wine was especially strong, and the one glass made his head spin slightly. He blinked it away, shaking his head and getting to his feet. He cast a perfunctory glance around the room—his father was deep in conversation with Gabriel Belmont, and his mother was nowhere to be seen. 

Cutting quickly through the crowd, he moved across the room towards the massive open double doors, ignoring the stares of the people he passed. He was used to people openly staring at him—either because of his odd coloring, his fangs, or because of the allure in his features lent to him by his father. At some point almost ten years ago he'd lost all the softness of childhood, having aged almost thrice as fast as a normal human.

He couldn't quite put his finger on when people had started to glance his way appreciatively, men and women alike. He didn't much like the attention, nor did he like the way they looked at him, with crude gleams in their eyes that didn't much hide what they were thinking. 

_But Trevor didn't look at you like that..._ said a little voice in his mind, and he shoved the thought away, stepping out of the room. He slipped between the doors, onto the massive hallway outside. He walked along it, hearing the strains of conversation and the general din of the party fade behind him. 

Looking up ahead, he saw moonlight spilling onto the richly carpeted floors, and upon closer inspection he discovered a massive balcony, the doors thrown open. Moving onto it, he approached the iron rail, with crosses woven into the metal. He sighed, looking out over the Belmont estate. It was like something out of a fairy tale, with trellises exploding with roses in yellow and pink and white, and marble fountains pouring crystal-clear water into their basins. 

It seemed like the exact opposite of his father's castle, which was more like something out of a nightmare. Though it was beautiful in its own ghastly way, it seemed macabre compared with the immaculateness of the Belmonts' house. It didn't seem like the kind of place someone like Trevor Belmont would have lived, but sometimes life was rich with unexpected ironies. 

"What the hell are you doing out here?"

For the second time that night he jumped and turned to see Trevor, frowning at him by the glass doors of the balcony. Adrian merely shrugged, turning back to the open air. The sky above was the darkest of dark blues, scattered across with stars. "Too many people," he said vaguely. "Couldn't think."

"Yeah, I can sort of relate." He drew up next to Adrian. He was shorter by just a little, but something about the force of his personality made up for it. "I hate those things."

He looked over at Trevor cautiously. "I thought you were used to them."

"Used to them, sure." He shrugged carelessly. "Doesn't mean I have to like it, though. Talking and socializing isn't really my scene."

He raised an eyebrow. "Then what is? The woods?" He looked out over the estate, to where the tall, imposing wall hid the trees that stretched beyond. "The village? Somewhere people don't know your name and expect things from you that you don't want to give, I suppose."

Trevor exhaled slowly, looking away from him. "I... well, yeah." He snorted, shaking his head. "God. Two times we've ever talked and he already knows my fucking shoe size." He sighed, scuffing the ground with the tip of his boot. There was silence for a few minutes, then he spoke again. 

"It's not like... it's not like I don't like the way things are," he said haltingly. "Because I do. I like this life, even if it's a little predictable sometimes." He shook his head. "But we weren't born for this. We're not... it's not like the Belmont family to recline into just being nobility or gentry or whatever. We're supposed to fight, to kill monsters. That's what we're meant to do. And watching all those weapons gather dust and watching my legacy gather dust—I couldn't take it."

"It's a heavy burden," murmured Adrian. "Even more so on the shoulders of a child."

He shrugged. "I guess." He huffed out a humorless laugh, looking out over the immaculate fields. "I can't believe I'm spilling my guts to a vampire of all the things," he muttered. "What next, breakfast with werewolves?"

Adrian rolled his eyes. "I'm only half-vampire," he felt compelled to point out. "And perhaps you should learn to look past just the surface of what someone is. It might do you a great deal of good."

"Hard to look past the fact that you've got fangs," was all Trevor said, not really answering his unspoken question, though it was clear from the way he avoided looking directly at Adrian that he had understood. "And that your dad's literally the father of all vampires." He glanced over at Adrian curiously. "What does that make you?"

Adrian turned to him, offended. " _Excuse_ me?"

Trevor held up his hands. "Not that way! For God's sake. I just meant... are you, like... vampire royalty or something like that? Betrothed to some vampire princess in Slovakia or something?"

He stared at him. "No, of course not. We're mostly undisturbed—my father is a general, not a king. It's quite normal."

"Yeah, except your mother's human and your father isn't," Trevor said, tilting his head. "How on earth did that happen?"

Adrian felt his cheeks flush. "This is why I was dreading telling you I'm a dhampir," he sighed. "It happened the way it does for everyone, Belmont. Would you like for me to go into the details?"

Trevor sent him a lopsided grin. "Not really."

"Then don't ask ridiculous questions. God, talking to you is like talking to a child." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, and Trevor looked quickly away from him. He heard his pulse spike slightly, then subside again. He usually forced his more vampiric instincts down, shutting them down so as not to intrude on anyone's thoughts or feelings, but sometimes it got the better of him. 

"So," Adrian said conversationally, "why did you follow me?"

Trevor spluttered inelegantly. "I did _not_ follow you," he said indignantly. "I just... I mean—you—you just ran off, I was just making sure—"

"Save it, Belmont," he laughed at Trevor's expression, and the candy-apple red flush that had spread across his cheeks. "I meant nothing by it. In some situations I find I don't mind certain company."

"And this is one of those situations?" He sounded enormously dubious, and Adrian shrugged fairly. "Well, for some opaque reason, I don't feel like throwing you off the balcony right now, and that's a start—which even to me is a continued mystery and a conundrum."

"Oh, I suppose you expect me to be so flattered by your sentiment," said Trevor, rolling his eyes. "And immensely grateful for your restraint."

"It would be appreciated," murmured Adrian with a smile. 

"Fucking vampires." He sighed expansively, leaning both elbows on the railing and leaning forward, resting his chin on his hands. He gazed out into the night, and Adrian couldn't tell, but he seemed to be looking beyond the wall, far away to the forest and the cover of the trees and the wilderness he so appeared to crave.

"Have you gone back?" Adrian asked. "Heard anything else from the village folk?"

Trevor grunted his assent. "Asked around," he said. "Nothing unusual since the last body, but they're all still shaken from it. All the victims are so young. It takes a toll on a small rural settlement so dependent on youth and male labor for cultivating and all that. And everyone's terrified it'll happen again, so nobody's even going near the woods."

"Smart of them." He tapped a nail against the railing, a small, sharp _ping_ sounding every time he did. "I, on the other hand, have been researching at home. More than a million books and you'd think there was _something_ about this sort of thing. Apparently not." He sighed.

"Your dad into books or something?" He was still staring at the wall. 

"He's a philosopher, a scholar. He has a great passion for the sciences—it's why he fell in love with my mother. She's a doctor," he explained at Trevor's quizzical expression. "Often knowledge can be a strong seducer." He bit his lip, looking down at his hands on the railing. "I looked in as many places as I could, but found nothing. There's next to no content about monsters and the like in the castle."

"Well," said Trevor slowly, "I think I may be able to help with that."

Adrian frowned at him. "How so?"

Trevor unhitched himself from the rail, turning around and crossing his arms. "We've got a library at home," he said. "I'm pretty sure there's more than a few books about the supernatural in there. We had busy ancestors, after all." He seemed to be hesitating, as if there was something else he wanted to say. Apparently he decided against it, since he lapsed into an uneasy silence. 

Finally, he spoke again. "It's still early," he said. "If you want, we could check it out now."

Adrian stared at him. "Right now?"

He shrugged, looking slightly uncomfortable. He determinedly wasn't looking at Adrian, but there was something almost hopeful in his averted eyes. "I mean, nobody will notice we've gone, and I could use a hand or two going through all those books."

Adrian hesitated for far too long, torn between wanting to stay away from this boy, who was so clearly trouble, and straying closer to him, to burn himself on the flame that drew him towards it like a moth. "I..."

"Yeah, it's a stupid idea," mumbled Trevor, shrugging and turning away. "Never mind—"

"No!" It came out louder than he had intended, and he lowered his voice with an effort. "No, I think it's a fine idea. I was just a bit apprehensive as to whether my parents would notice my absence. It's more likely than yours noticing you've gone—after all, there's seven of you, and only one of me."

Trevor glanced up cautiously. "Yeah, I guess," he said. "So... you'll come? We can be in and out in less than an hour."

Adrian gestured at the hallway behind them. "Lead the way, Belmont."

* * *

The Belmont manor was much larger than he had initially anticipated—but then again, he had not seen all of it. It was definitely more airy than his father's castle, with walls paneled with mahogany that gleamed as if with oil in the light of the glass lamps mounted on the ceiling. It cast a mellow, pleasant glow on the whole place, and there was an awful lot of dark, rich wood and carpets and tapestries, all primarily in colors of red and gold. 

"So what are you doing here?" Trevor asked, spinning on his heel and walking backwards to face Adrian as they walked. "I had no idea your dad knows mine."

Adrian shrugged. "We've always been on good terms with the Belmonts—sort of. I mean, there's the minor inconvenience of your family being the most famous vampire hunters of all time—"

"Oh, such a minor problem," muttered Trevor.

"—but despite that, our relationship has never been _bad_. My father knew an ancestor of yours, apparently they were quite close. I don't know how far that's true, my father has never spoken about it—but now that you've been wrestled into passivity, perhaps something can be done about it."

"Huh. I've never seen you here before today, though." He squinted at Adrian, still walking backwards, navigating his way expertly through a dizzying array of corridors despite not even facing forward. Force of habit, Adrian presumed. He shrugged offhandedly. "We've never come here before today," he said. 

"Weird." Trevor frowned, hands in his pockets. "This had better not mean I'll be seeing you here more often, then."

Adrian felt oddly hurt. "Why not?"

Trevor grinned at him, a recklessly happy schoolboy grin that made him look years younger, though he was plenty young. "Because it's going to be weird if you're going to see me outside the house where I'm incidentally not supposed to be, by the way—and then see me here acting like none of it happens, isn't it?"

Adrian's lips twitched upwards almost against his volition, for some reason absurdly happy that he was being trusted by Trevor Belmont, even if he didn't quite know what it meant yet—or what it would bring him in the future. "Well, when you put it that way, I suppose it's a good thing I can keep my mouth shut, isn't it?"

Trevor shot him a look that was half-amusement and half-appreciation, the corner of his lips curling upwards. The ruddy light from the lamps cast a reddish glow on his skin, and made the tips of his hair glow as if they were on fire. Adrian noticed his shoulders relax ever so slightly—a movement that would have gone unnoticed by a normal human and yet leaped out at his vampire senses. So Adrian wasn't the only one who was faintly nervous. _What a relief,_ he thought dryly. 

The silence that blossomed between them after that was exactly the opposite of uncomfortable; it was almost natural, as if they had both finally allowed some invisible guard to be let down, if only for a moment. "Here," said Trevor, stopping by a door on the left. It was massive, arching and, like everything else, made of wood. God, if ever there was a fire to start in this place, Adrian thought distantly, it wouldn't stand a chance. 

He pushed it open, moving inside and allowing Adrian to follow. "I barely come in here." His voice floated out from somewhere in front of him in the semidarkness. "It's usually where Elara and Marianne come though—two of my sisters." He moved over to a lamp, twisting the knob. The flame inside grew, illuminating the space considerably. 

As Trevor moved about brightening the lamps, Adrian spun around on his heel in a slow circle, squinting at the shelves. "Exactly how many sisters do you have, Belmont?"

Trevor sighed. "Six."

"Wow."

"Yeah, we're a busy family." He sounded amused. "Sometimes even I forget their names and call one of them by the other's and there's so much screeching and hair-pulling, it's a nightmare—yeah, there we go." He turned the last lamp up, and the room leaped out at him, a suddenly overwhelming array of shelves and books and carpets and books and tapestries and books and stained glass and _books_.

Every imaginable surface was covered in them—the walls were all shelf after shelf, there were tables spilling over with them, and there were even books scattered on the windowsills and the chairs, stacked in neat rows with stamped silk bookmarks tucked into the pages. 

"You have quite the collection as well, Belmont." He moved over to a shelf, sliding a book from it and rifling through. "I'm impressed."

"Yeah, well." Trevor moved over to stand next to him. "Told you I'd need a hand looking through them all."

"You'll need several hands, if the number of books here is anything to go by." He placed the book back, moving deeper into the shelves. "Where on earth do we start? Are you even allowed to have books about the supernatural in here?"

"Well, no," Trevor admitted. "That's why they're all shoved at the very back, or under tables and stuff. But most of them are in the—" He stopped abruptly, then cleared his throat, waving a dismissive hand. "Or just lying about," he finished vaguely. "I don't think there are too many up here."

"I see." He eyed the other man, who wasn't looking at him, teeth gnawing at his lower lip. Clearly a bad liar. Adrian decided not to push his chances. After all, he barely knew him. He kept his mouth shut, only nodding and following Trevor deeper into the shelves. It was a veritable maze, an endless row after row of shelves filled with tomes of all shapes and sizes. 

"So we know that this thing has only killed young men so far," Trevor said as they walked. "And it rips out their hearts."

"I thought perhaps if there was some sort of connection between the victims, it would make more sense," Adrian said. "But there's nothing. I asked around the village, spoke to their families, but nothing seems off about any of it—"

"Wait," said Trevor. "You can just waltz into the village and nobody bats an eyelash when they see a vampire?"

"I walk in the daylight, Belmont," he said testily. "And as long as I don't deliberately show my fangs they're much less prominent than a full-blooded vampire's are. Moreover, I go there quite often. The children are quite taken with me, I must admit. They insist I keep coming back, and I can't very well deny them, can I?"

Trevor snorted. "That's the strangest thing I've heard all week. So they nicknamed you Alucard?"

He shrugged, looking away. "Not these children, no. When I was a boy, my father would take me out sometimes, to the nearest town—one of the few places in Wallachia where we can exist in harmony with the people and they don't bother us if we don't bother them. They saw us as polar opposites, as two different sides to the same coin. Next time we went back, they called us Dracula and Alucard, one the opposite of the other."

"And did you mind?"

Adrian exhaled. "At first, not really. Even now, not particularly. It's just that no matter where I go, I'm never my own person, I'm just Dracula's son. That's all people see me as."

Trevor said nothing, merely moving deeper into the shelves. "Alucard isn't the worst nickname to have, I suppose," he muttered after a while, stopping in front of a small, overstuffed bookshelf at the very back of the room. "Here."

"This is all the books you have about the supernatural?" He frowned, removing a tipping book from the shelf and flipping it open. "I must say I expected more."

"I suppose." Trevor picked up a book, looking down into the pages. His choppy, inky hair fell over his eyes, hiding them, and Adrian's fingers itched to tuck the strands back in place. "But we're not exactly allowed to even have these in the house, much less out in the open. We've had to throw them all away, or hide them—that, or burn them. My father loves books, though, he'd never let anything happen to them."

"I see." He flipped another book open. "All right, so what do we know about whatever's killing the people?"

"It only attacks at night," said Trevor, leaning against the shelf and gazing out at Adrian. "The victims all go missing only after nightfall. Particularly around the witching hour."

"All right, so..." He squinted at the book. "Werewolves, perhaps?"

"I thought of that," said Trevor, nodding at him. "In some places, werewolves are believed to take the hearts from their victims, it's heard of in a lot of areas around the world. But they don't discriminate with their victims, and I've checked in the village for any people who might fit the description."

"Well?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Nobody." He shrugged. "I went there on the night of the full moon—there wasn't a body the next morning, and nobody acted out of the ordinary."

"If it's an old one, though, it can control its instincts, can't it?"

"Yeah, it can. But the full moon forces change. No matter how old you are." He ran his fingers through his hair and it stuck all around his head in dark spikes. "It's fucking weird. Nothing matches the attacks."

"Hmm." He flipped more pages. "Ghouls? They eat human flesh, after all."

"Huh. Maybe." Trevor leaned closer, his arm brushing Adrian's. "I never thought of that. But I haven't encountered any around here."

"None?"

"Not for eight years, at least." He frowned. "But it isn't impossible."

"If it is a ghoul, why is it only killing young men, then? And why isn't the rest of the body ripped apart?"

"Hell if I know." He tapped the page. "Maybe this ghoul's just into virile young men." He grinned at Adrian. "I hope my virtue is safe."

"Oh, please," laughed Adrian. "You should be worried about me, not yourself, if that's the case."

"So you _can_ be a cocky bastard when you want to be," said Trevor with a smirk. "And there I thought the son of Dracula was a bore."

"You don't know me yet, Trevor Belmont." He flipped open another book. "A Wendigo, maybe?"

"Variant of ghoul." Trevor peered into the book. "If it were a Wendigo then there wouldn't be bodies to be recovered. Those things feed messy."

"Malevolent spirit?"

"Nope. They usually leave traces." He leaned even closer, and Adrian smelled leather and spice and something he couldn't quite identify—something deep and musky and rich. It was very... _male_. He shook his head to clear it, covering up with a hasty cough. "I'd have figured that out by now if it was."

"Erm... right." He blinked rapidly, rifling a few more pages. "A faerie, perhaps? They do like to play with their food before they eat it, and some attack only men or women."

"That's a theory, too." He bit his lip. "There's something else that I found a bit weird."

"What?"

"I've been around since the first killing," he said hesitantly. "I've been right there, in the woods, around the time they happen. And this thing, like I said, it doesn't discriminate its victims. It takes whoever the hell it wants if they're at the right place at the right time." He hesitated, swallowing. "And..."

"You're wondering why it hasn't targeted you yet," Adrian realized. 

He shrugged, looking away. "It's definitely crossed my mind."

"Maybe it knows you're a hunter," suggested Adrian. "Then it'd stay away from you. Moreover, the bodies have been found pretty far into the woods. I don't think you go that far in, do you?"

"Not really. I stay as close to the clear as I can," he said. "But I'd be lying if I said I haven't considered going in there as bait, though."

"That's ridiculous," Adrian said sharply, shutting the book with a snap. "You can't do that."

"Why not?" He raised an eyebrow. "It makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Not to me." He scowled. "Willingly throwing yourself to something that literally rips people open without even knowing what it is—that's practically suicide, Belmont. Not to mention enormously stupid, and reckless. What'll happen if you don't come back? Your family won't even know what happened to you. They never will, if you've covered your tracks well."

Trevor thrust his chin up haughtily. "I'm careful," he said. "I can handle whatever's out there, I've been doing it for years. You've never even seen me fight— _I'm_ the one who hit you with _my_ whip when we last met, if I'm not mistaken. And you're not exactly the clumsiest person in Wallachia."

"But you can't risk your neck against something you don't know anything about," snapped Adrian, automatically raising a hand to press it against his side, where there was a faint scar, a remnant of having bit hit by his whip all those days ago. It hadn't opened his skin, but it had left an impressive bruise that he'd had to hide from his parents. "It's not practical."

"We might not ever know anything else about it unless I go," Trevor snapped back. "I don't think this is anything we've seen in a while."

"If that's the case, then I'll go," said Adrian, his fingers falling away from his side. "I've got better chances of surviving against whatever this thing is—"

"Now you're just being a hypocrite," snapped Trevor. "We're equally matched, I can handle myself just as well as you can out there—"

"I have the advantage of powers lent to me by my father," Adrian said testily. "Tell me, Belmont, can you move faster than the speed of sound? Can you bend gravity? Can you turn into a wolf?"

Trevor's outraged expression slowly slipped off his face and crashed on the floor, replaced by confusion. "You can turn into a wolf? So that's why you acted like I'd kicked your cat when I suggested that the wolves might be behind this." He raised his eyebrows.

He blushed angrily. "Well, I mean—"

"Save it." He inspected Adrian, his expression unreadable. "It doesn't matter that you've got special powers or whatever. It doesn't make any difference. You can't stop me from going—I can't sit back and do nothing while whatever that thing is murders people, and hell if I'm not going to try."

Adrian saw right through all the words he'd used, saw straight down to what he really meant. _I do what I want, and you can't stop me._

Trevor stalked off between the shelves, his shoulders set in a tense line. Adrian grit his teeth, willing the air around him to bend. Red flashed in front of his eyes as he moved, too fast for the eye to follow—one moment he was standing by the shelves, and the next he had appeared directly in front of Trevor, surging forward and pinning him to the shelf behind them.

He let out a strangled, outraged yell, struggling and thrashing in Adrian's grip as he slammed him against the shelf, upsetting a few books. They fell facedown onto the floor, their pages rustling as they did. Adrian slid his knee in between Trevor's legs, pinning them in place as his fingers dug into his shoulders, hard enough to bite but not hard enough to bruise. His other arm slanted across Trevor's chest, pressing him back.

"I can stop you," he hissed, his face millimeters from Trevor's. He could see every individual brushstroke of his dusky lashes, fringing his flame-blue eyes, which were blazing with anger. "I can tie you down and I will sit on you if I have to, but you are not going to foolishly throw away your life as if there's no weight behind it."

"What do you care?" Trevor snarled, still thrashing. His breaths puffed out on Adrian's lips. "What do you care if I live or die?"

"I? I don't. For all I care, you can throw yourself off a fucking cliff," Adrian snapped. "But there are people who _do_ care about you, Trevor Belmont. People who don't even know the kind of danger you put yourself in every night for people _you_ don't even know. I've observed your family for all of an hour, and do you know what I saw?"

"I couldn't care less what you saw, you—"

"I saw eight people who _desperately_ care about you, you idiot," he hissed. "People who have given you everything. Is this how you repay them? Lies and running and hiding? Because there's a word for that, and it's _ungrateful_."

"You," snarled Trevor, "know nothing about me and my family, vampire, so shut up. You have no idea what happens here, and you never will. Stay out of my family's business, and stay out of mine." 

"And what happens if you die?" He tilted his head. "When whatever is ripping those people open rips you open as well? Hmm? What happens then?"

"I won't," said Trevor, still struggling. "I know how to handle myself."

Adrian pressed him further against the shelf, wedging his knee tighter between Trevor's legs and allowing his lips to curl back just far enough for his fangs to show. "Prove it," he breathed. 

Trevor's eyes sparked into a hectic, wild blue. "Tonight, then," he said, cheeks flushed with anger. "After midnight, same place. We'll see exactly how good you are at stopping me."

Adrian felt the corner of his lips curl up. "Are you challenging me to a duel, Belmont? How very human of you." He stepped back, releasing Trevor, who immediately shoved himself up, glaring daggers at Adrian. "Very well, then," Adrian said. "I accept."

"Good." Trevor folded his arms across his chest. "Now get the fuck out of my house."

* * *

Adrian sat cross-legged on his bed, running a finger over the edge of his sword. It had been a while since he'd last used it, but it was still deadly sharp. As he slid his finger over its gleaming double blade, it slipped over the razor-sharp edge. A long, thin cut opened up on his fingertip, welling with ruby-red blood. 

He winced, watching as a single drop of blood welled up and slid down his finger like a tear. Wiping it away, he slid his sword back into its sheath, sighing. He set it down beside his shirt, which was strewn across the mattress. He peered over his own shoulder and down to his side, where the bruise Trevor's whip had given him still hadn't faded. 

It had been a week, but the consecrated leather had taken its toll on his skin, which was particularly susceptible to bruises. He pressed his fingers to the splotch of purple on his side, sighing at the dull wave of pain that radiated from the spot. He stood, pulling on his shirt and throwing his long coat over it, sliding his sword sheath into his belt. 

He slunk out of his room, stealing along the corridor, making sure none of the lights were on so that he could move undetected. He slid through the shadows, moving like liquid darkness among them. The whole time, all he could think of was how unbelievably stupid he had been earlier that night. Why he had taken Trevor Belmont's challenge—so easily that had it been a trap, he had walked directly into it. 

He had to admit it was mostly his own fault. He'd baited him, and he was paying the price. He wasn't afraid of losing—it was quite the opposite—but he'd be lying if a little part of him wasn't anticipating this. His pride warred with his more rational instincts, and it left him confused if not irritated. And there was the one thing he most vehemently denied.

The question of Trevor himself. 

He swore softly to himself as he slipped into the kitchen, then through the back door. Sliding it shut behind him, he moved two or so steps before he shifted into his wolf form, feeling his bones bend and twist and his body bend backwards. Fur rippled across his skin, silver as the moonlight that slanted down from the sky. He set off into the woods, his strides long and soundless on the forest floor. 

He marked the spot they had first met from scent, following the tang of noble blood and that other, deeper scent that was so singularly _Trevor_ that it was like a flare laid out for him, leading him to the stream. He found it easily, seeing the old bent fig tree splayed over the water and the heavy, still-lingering scent of blood that shrouded it. 

His eyes found Trevor immediately—he was sitting by the stream, long legs folded underneath him. His ridiculously large cloak was slung over his shoulders, the fur hiding his family crest. He saw the glint of metal at his waist, and the coils of his whip as well. He was gazing into the water, pensively, the corners of his lips turned down. His eyes were unfocused but his body was tense. 

The moment Adrian padded into the vicinity he tensed all over, uncoiling to his feet remarkably quickly, drawing a blade the length of his forearm. He caught sight of Adrian just as he shifted again in a flash of gold, standing in his human form again, a hand on the hilt of his sword at his hip. 

Perhaps this wouldn't be a complete waste after all.

"Show-off," muttered Trevor, a small smirk curling his upper lip. "You're late, by the way." He advanced leisurely, still holding his blade. Adrian merely shrugged, not blinking. "I had to make my excuses, didn't I?"

"And what did you say?"

"That," said Adrian, inclining his head, "is none of your concern."

He didn't look away from him. "Careful," he said, his voice dropping into an almost purring cadence that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "You don't want them to think you're off trysting with a Belmont in the woods."

"I imagine they'd be just as thrilled as your parents would be if they thought the same of their son and a vampire," was all Adrian said, glad that the moonlight as well as his own pallor hid his blush. He unsheathed his sword in one smooth movement, the silver blade gleaming eerily in the night. "Now, if I'm not mistaken you called me here to test me, not proposition me. Shall we begin?"

Trevor sheathed his blade, drawing his whip. It unspooled at his feet, a mass of deadly black coils. His eyes glinted in the darkness like chips of diamond as his fingers tightened around the handle, knuckles whitening alarmingly as he gripped it tight. 

And that was the only warning Adrian received before he struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you thought Adrian and Trevor were getting along...? We all know that's not meant to last.


	3. Ram Horns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Ram Horns:** _Strength, aggressiveness, power of the hands over that of the mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is so early. But it's 11:00 PM, on a Sunday... I've got brilliant timing, haven't I?
> 
>  Also this turned out way longer than I'd thought it would be. Oh well.

**_Trevor_ **

He'd fought vampires before, plenty of them. 

Full-blooded ones, that too—ones with centuries of experience and speed and bloodlust to back them up. He'd had nothing but his whip, and he'd staked them and burned their remains and scattered them in the wind or in the river. He'd never failed to kill a vampire, not in the eight years he'd fought them. 

But he'd never fought a dhampir—nor did he know what it meant to, how different it was to fighting a proper vampire.

Because Adrian Tepes was _fast_. And seemingly indestructible. 

He wove and spun around Trevor's whip with something akin to ease, each of his movements accentuated and pronounced. The massive rapier that he wielded didn't seem to come in his way at all, despite being almost the same length as he himself was. It flashed in his fingers as he swept it upwards, and it skid across the length of his whip, dragging along the leather. 

His face was totally closed, calm and expressionless. Only his eyes were narrowed, burning golden in the dimness. The moonlight that drenched the forest coated him as well, making light drip off his blade like drops of quicksilver. His coat fell around his long body in elegant folds till his ankles, sweeping around him like black angel wings as he moved. 

Trevor hadn't ever had cause to fight like this before, as if his opponent were lightning and he had to match that pace, to move in accordance with him, as they were engaged in a dance and not a fight. Each of his blows was blocked, or dodged, or parried, and each time he got close enough to attack, his blade swept so close he could feel the coldness of the night on the metal. 

He spun close again, his blade glancing off Trevor's whip as he did. He raised the sword, his eyes narrowing as he slashed it down in a long, sweeping arc. Trevor spun away, leaping backwards and casting out his whip at its full length. It snaked around Adrian's ankle, and he jerked it tight, making to knock him off his feet. 

But Adrian was too quick; he leaped upwards in a perfect backflip, landing lightly on his feet about a yard away, then spun towards him again, the moonlight catching his hair. Trevor raised his whip instinctively—it wasn't a close-range weapon, but he was taken by surprise, so much so that his body reacted before his mind did. Adrian's blade struck the handle of his whip, grazing his knuckles. He felt his skin tear under the metal, the edge slicing off half an inch of skin. 

He gasped, moving back as pain lanced through his hand, nearly making him drop his whip. Gritting his teeth against it, he switched to his right hand, lashing out and managing to wrap the end of the whip around Adrian's wrist. The suddenness of his retaliation seemed to take Adrian by surprise; he looked down at the black bracelet of leather on his wrist and hesitated, Trevor's blood dripping off his blade. 

Trevor yanked hard, and he heard Adrian's sharp intake of breath as he was pulled suddenly towards Trevor, his fingers freeing his sword, which clattered to the ground where it lay, gleaming in the dimness. Trevor seized the distraction, spinning and kicking him hard, directly in the chest. 

A snarl ripped itself from Adrian's throat as he lost balance, half-falling onto his knees. He looked up, his pale hair curtaining his face, showering in inelegant loops around his shoulders. His eyes flickered, gold flashing into red suddenly—and a second later his sword spun towards Trevor, guided by his will. 

Trevor ducked, clutching his whip in his left hand again as it darted out again, snaking out towards Adrian's legs. But this time Adrian was ready; he dug his heel into the ground, slamming his foot down onto the coils. It jerked in Trevor's fingers, his grip loosening. He made to grab it properly again, lunging forward, but he was too slow—Adrian moved forward, kicking the taut leather away. Trevor's fingers, slick with blood, slipped on the handle, and another kick from Adrian sent it spinning away into the shadows. 

_So that's how you want it,_ Trevor thought grimly, scrambling backwards as he drew his own blade, managing to sweep it upwards just in time to block Adrian's first blow. The sword had spun into his waiting fingers, and he thrust it forward again, catching Trevor's blade on the hilt. Trevor spun away, slashing upwards. He was blocked by a silver hilt and a hissing Adrian, who stepped forward and brought his sword down again, and again, and again.

It was a one-on-one fight as he had never experienced before; he didn't usually engage in direct combat with anything he hunted, and he never usually found cause to otherwise. They traded blow after blow, and for a time it seemed as if they were equally matched, that neither of them had the upper hand. But Adrian had seemingly endless reservoirs of energy; Trevor didn't. 

His arm burned every time he lifted his blade, and each time Adrian's own blade crashed against his with a sonorous clang and a burst of sparks, he was driven back another inch. Adrian's face was set in harsh, forbidding lines, shadows pooling between the finely contoured bones of his cheeks and jaw. He didn't even blink as he slashed and thrust and parried again and again, raining down blow after blow, not faltering. 

Another few minutes and Trevor was raising his blade only to block Adrian's attacks, his breaths dragging in and out of his lungs and both his arms sore and muscles screaming with exhaustion. He felt sweat dripping into his eyes, and he raised his blade again to catch a slash on the hilt, and his feet slipped back just a bit more—and suddenly his back hit a tree, knocking the wind out of him. 

He gasped as a blur of silver flashed towards him, and instinctively he ducked, driving his own blade upwards to meet Adrian's, which sheared into the bark of the tree he'd been driven into. Half-desperate and too exhausted to lift his blade again, he grit his teeth and drove forward, his shoulder connecting with Adrian's hard enough to send them both sprawling. 

He heard a surprised cry, and then he felt something connect solidly with his jaw, then a sharp ache as what was most likely Adrian's knee drove into his stomach, making him gag. Trevor flailed ungracefully, trying to heave himself up to gain some sort of advantage. He managed to grab a fistful of something soft and flexible, his fingers fisting into whatever it was, hard.

Adrian yelled his outrage, kicking Trevor hard in the shin in response. Trevor winced, looking down—and saw his fingers buried in long blond tresses. _Shit,_ he thought, then promptly kneed Adrian in the chest, letting go of his hair as he flipped him onto his back, managing to sling a leg over his hip as he did. He pressed Adrian further against the ground, snatching his blade from where he'd dropped it and aiming it directly at Adrian's heart. 

"How does it feel now?" Trevor said triumphantly, pushing him down further. "All pinned down like you're a butterfly on a board?"

"What the _fuck_ —" Adrian spluttered, spitting long blond strands of hair out of his mouth. He was pinned underneath Trevor, wriggling feebly. "What the fuck is your problem—you can't do that—you—you pulled my _hair_!"

"Yeah, well, that was sort of unplanned," admitted Trevor. "Sorry." 

"You complete and utter— _arse_!" He struggled fruitlessly, glaring. "It was a fair fight until you decided to throw both our dignity out the window, Belmont—"

"It was never a fair fight, you've got your stupid powers, haven't you?" Trevor still hadn't moved his blade, hovering it over Adrian's heart. "As long as you never tire and never lose breath, it wasn't a fair fight. I had every right to fight dirty."

"Oh, you want to fight dirty?" He'd stopped thrashing and was gazing out at Trevor with an unreadable glint in his amber eyes. His coat hung off his shoulders, and his shirt collar gaped open at the neck. His hair was splayed all around his head, bright against the ground. The disheveled sight of him below Trevor like that made a shiver of heat race through his body, and a jumble of thoughts rushed through his brain, ones that made his cheeks burn. A small smirk curled Adrian's lips. "Fine, then," he said. 

He closed his eyes, and suddenly he blurred at the edges, the outlines of his body turning fuzzy. There was a flash of red, and suddenly the air where he'd just been was empty, Trevor's blade hanging over nothingness. Half a second later there was a rush of air behind him, and he scrambled back just in time for something to slam into him, his back hitting the ground and his sword flying out of his hand. 

His eyes registered another flash of red, and it coalesced into Adrian, who rolled gracefully on top of him, reversing their positions. Trevor groaned as Adrian's legs pinned his, his hair showering down to spill across his chest. He grinned victoriously, peering down into Trevor's face. "There," he said. 

"You seem to love pinning me onto the nearest available surface," Trevor snapped, flexing his arm, which was trapped beneath Adrian's foot. "Am I supposed to take that as an invitation?"

Adrian blushed. It was very prominent against his pale skin, and for some reason it gave Trevor an immense amount of satisfaction. It was also absolutely adorable. "Oh, shut up," he said, though he was still pink in the face. "You're just a sore loser."

"And _you're_ a fucking cheater, what difference does it make?" He gave up struggling, allowing his head to fall back onto the ground with a thunk. His arms were spread-eagled, palms turned towards the sky. "I'd won," he sighed. "You knew it'd be unethical to use your weird teleportation thing on me—"

"And you knew it'd be unethical to literally knock me over and then proceed to _grab my hair_ ," Adrian replied smoothly, raising an eyebrow. He was so close that Trevor could count the number of darker chips of gold in his eyes. Eleven in his left eye, only four in his right. Each one like a tiny starburst. 

"...Trevor?"

He blinked and jumped, coming sharply and abruptly back to reality. _Quick,_ said a voice in his head. _Look away from his eyes. Look somewhere else—anywhere else—_

His eyes slid down, from the honey-gold of his eyes down to his lips, which were slightly parted, just enough to insinuate the tips of his fangs. Soft. Full. Slightly chapped. _Not a good place to look,_ the voice said, though it was getting more and more distant by the second. He blinked again, looking hastily at his shoulder instead. "What?"

"You were just staring at me." A small, teasing smile curled his lips. "Am I to assume you enjoy it when I pin you to the nearest available surface?"

"Oh, fuck off." He wriggled under Adrian's grip. "Let go of me, you leech. You cheated."

"I did _not_. I don't cheat," Adrian protested haughtily. "And even if I did, just a little, you cheated first."

"You cheated by just existing, how did I cheat first?" He poked Adrian's back to free his now entirely numb arm, shaking it to bring back the blood flow. "Now get off me."

"You're the one who challenged me, for God's sake." His fingers curled on Trevor's chest as he made to get up, nails digging into his skin through his shirt. He seemed just about to move when he froze suddenly, his whole body going rigid and tense. He slowly turned his head to the left, eyes narrowing.

"What?" Trevor turned his head as well, peering into the undergrowth. "What happened? Did you see some—"

"Shut up," Adrian whispered furiously, a hand clamping over Trevor's mouth. His other hand was still gripping his shirt, and his nails were beginning to bite into his skin. "There's something there," he breathed, so softly Trevor had to strain to hear it, even if he was right above him. "It's been watching us for a while now." 

_What the fuck?_ "Why the hell didn't you say anything?" Trevor tried to ask furiously, but Adrian's fingers were still pressing to his lips, and all that came out was an outraged, muffled "Mngh?"

"I thought perhaps it was some curious woodland creature," he said softly, in that same near-inaudible voice. "But it's been there far too long, and it's much too quiet. It's watching us still. I can see its eyes."

He struggled, still pinned under Adrian, but he wasn't strong enough, and his arm was still prickling and all funny-feeling. He was still trapped, unable to move, and if he knew Adrian Tepes at all, then he wasn't going to be getting up any time soon. He squinted into the bushes, and a few seconds later he saw it—a pair of eerily glowing eyes, catching the moonlight and gleaming sinisterly in the darkness. There was something odd about them, though he couldn't tell what. They were fixated on him and Adrian. 

He tried to speak, but again found himself blocked by Adrian's hand. Seeing no other option and needing to do _something_ about the fact that whatever was watching them could possibly be what they were looking for, he decided to do what he did best. 

Improvise. And possibly do the stupidest thing imaginable.

He carefully angled his head, then bit down on Adrian's palm, hard. Blood filled his mouth, sharp and coppery and oddly sweet, smearing across his lips. He heard a sharp intake of breath and a soft jumble of curses, and then he was free. He rolled to his knees soundlessly, spitting Adrian's blood out of his mouth and grabbing his whip from where he'd dropped it earlier. He heard Adrian hiss his name indignantly, but he was already moving, slowly towards the bushes. 

"Trevor, come _back_ ," Adrian's voice whispered behind him, desperately. "We still don't know what this thing is—"

There was a rustle in front of him, and suddenly the eyes blinked, glinting unnaturally in the darkness, and he realized what was so strange about them. They weren't the eyes of a demon, or a monster, or even a vampire. 

They were the eyes of a human. 

There was another rustle, and the eyes disappeared. There was something horrifyingly familiar about them, something that he couldn't identify but made him feel sick to his stomach. They reappeared a few feet above where he'd seen them before, and this time he saw a faint outline of a body—slender, petite. He heard a faint, tinkling peal of laughter, and then the light crunch of leaves getting further and further away with every one. Whatever that thing was, it was getting away. 

A sudden, nameless instinct clutched him tight, and he didn't even think twice before he stumbled after it, his whip trailing behind him as he ran. His mind was blank, and the only thing he could think of was that he had to follow whatever was running ahead of him. His limbs seemed to be moving on their own volition, pushing aside low-hanging branches and jumping over fallen trees. He heard Adrian call his name, but he didn't look back as he plunged deeper into the trees. 

It was just ahead of him, dancing out of reach whenever he came close. He still couldn't see what it was, but in the dimness he could just barely make out a slender but svelte figure, voluptuous, with long, loose tresses that fell straight down till a narrow waist. The faint laughter he could hear was light, high, sweet almost. A woman, then—but was she human? 

"Trevor!" Adrian's voice was nearer than before, and he could hear running footsteps behind him, coming closer. "Trevor, stop!" 

He didn't answer, still stumbling after her—it—whatever that thing was. He could still see it ahead of him, a faint outline. Up ahead, he saw a gap in the foliage in the trees above, and a single beam of moonlight that filtered through, a bright stripe of silver among the darkness. It lit the leaves to liquid brightness, and it was directly ahead of him. 

He was still running when he dropped his whip, but he hardly realized when it slipped from his fingers, which were limp and caked with dried blood. He barely heard it hit the ground, and he stumbled on, eyes straining to see in front of him, not to lose sight of the woman he was chasing. He drew closer and closer, and just as he was about to reach out, whatever he was chasing stepped directly into the single beam of moonlight that slanted through the trees. 

His legs gave out, and he slid to his knees at the edge of circle the light, his mouth going dry. Because he _knew_ her face—he had seen it before. She was achingly familiar, but also alien, as if she were someone he had met lifetimes ago, as if he knew her but had forgotten the shape of her eyes, the softness in her skin, the luster of her hair. She was beautiful and also terrible, like a goddess—her features shifted every time he looked at her, shimmering like an illusion.

She was looking at him, lips parted and eyes searching, as if she too recognized him. She held out a slender hand, fingers reaching out. His own hand reached for hers, longing to touch her, wanting to know who she was. Her hand came closer and closer, her fingers curling upwards as if to take his hand in her own. Their fingers were inches apart, and were just about to touch when suddenly she froze, looking up in alarm. She drew her hand back, clutching it to her chest, eyes wide.

"Trevor!" Adrian's voice called, and then he stumbled out of the bushes next to Trevor at the edge of the ray of moonlight, out of breath. "Why on earth did you just run off like that? You could have died! What were you even running after?"

"I—what?" He blinked at Adrian. "Can't you see her? She's right there—" He pointed at the moonlight, at where she had been standing. But there was nothing, not even a breath of wind, as if she had turned into the moonlight itself, which stabbed downwards in a harsh silver ray. 

"See who?" Adrian knelt next to him, peering worriedly into his face. "There's nobody there, Trevor." His voice was soft, as if he were talking to a child. 

"Stop talking to me like that—I know what I saw," he snapped. "She was right there. I saw her."

"Okay." He still looked worried, and his voice was still soft, as he were speaking to a skittish mount. "How did she look?"

"I..." He swallowed hard. He shook his head, at a loss for some reason. "It was just two seconds ago—she—" He rummaged desperately in his memory as if searching for something he had lost, but the image of her in his mind had slipped through his fingers, even though he could still see her in his head. "I can't remember," he said finally. "But I saw her, I swear."

"All right." He felt a light hand on his back, steadying him. "You dropped this," he went on, and held out something he was holding in his long-fingered hand—a glimmering mass of black leather coils. "My whip," he said, taking it as if in a daze. "I—I didn't even realize I'd dropped it."

Adrian drew his hand away, and Trevor saw, with an accompanying pang of guilt, a raw tear in his palm where Trevor had bitten him earlier. His skin was bruised where Trevor's teeth had sank into his palm, and there was blood too bright to be a human's all over his skin. It looked terrible, and painful, even for one who healed about five times faster than a regular person.

"You're shaking," said Adrian, his other hand coming to rest on Trevor's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

He nodded, still staring at the light. "I'm fine. But I—where did she go? She was there, right before you came. She was right—" He got to his feet, shrugging Adrian's hands off him. He stepped into the beam of light, looking up at the moon where it gleamed in between the gaps made by the trees above him. "Right here," he finished. "I don't understand. Where'd she go?"

"Come on." Adrian came up next to him, peering concernedly at him. "Let's get you home now—"

"No, I'm fine," he snapped, moving further away. "I just don't get it," he said. "I saw..."

"Maybe it was an illusion," said Adrian, still frowning at him. "Maybe you don't know what you saw, Trevor. It happens sometimes. But you're hurt, we need to get you home now before you lose too much blood."

"What? I'm not hurt." He looked down at himself. His knuckles were still raw and bloody, but they'd stopped bleeding. Other than that, he wasn't bleeding anywhere else, nor did he feel any pain. 

"Yes, you are." Adrian stepped up in front of him, a hand reaching out and brushing his hair out of his eyes. "Right here," he said softly, his fingers brushing a ragged, torn cut at his left temple. Trevor blinked, swallowing thickly. "I don't remember getting that," he said, feeling dazed. "I can't even feel anything."

"Often adrenaline can hide pain, and make things move faster for you, so you can't exactly place an order on things," Adrian said, his fingers falling away from Trevor's face. "You need to get this cleaned and treated before it starts bleeding more. Come on, I'll help you. Which way is your house?"

"I... west," said Trevor faintly. He looked up at the sky, squinting at the moon. "That's north-west," he mumbled, still peering at the sky. "I can't tell which way it's setting."

"No need for all that." Adrian reached into his pocket, thumbing out something small and round. He held it out, and a small wavering needle wobbled about under the glass face. Trevor frowned at it. "What the hell is that?"

"It's called a compass," Adrian said, looking down at it. "My father made this one—it determines cardinal directions, so you needn't keep judging the same by the sun and moon. Sometimes doing so is highly inaccurate. This determines them flawlessly."

"Cool." He swayed on his feet, his vision dimming. A sudden throb of pain shot through his head, so intense that his knees nearly gave way. He grabbed Adrian's arm for balance, wincing. "Hey, Adrian?" His voice was faint, weak almost. 

"Hmm? What?" He looked up, then his eyes widened when he did. "What is it? Are you all right?"

"Don't feel so good." He put a hand to his head, and his fingers came away slick with fresh blood, a welter of it covering his skin. "Shit," he muttered. 

"Lean on me," Adrian said sharply, his arm snaking around Trevor's waist. "Quickly, come on." When Trevor didn't respond, he grabbed his shoulders, looking into his face, alarm blazing in his face. "Trevor?"

"Adrian," he said distantly, and that was the last thing he could manage before darkness rose up suddenly in his vision, rushing towards him and wrapping around him, enveloping him in the merciful realm of unconsciousness. The last thing he felt before he slipped away entirely was Adrian's arms catching him before he fell to the ground.

* * *

Daylight sliced into his closed eyelids, flooding his vision with bright red and forcing his eyes open. He groaned, turning his head to the side to get away from it, his head throbbing with every beat of his heart. 

He frowned, his eyes falling shut again. He could feel a soft pillow under his head, and sheets covering his body. He knew instantly that he was in his own room—he could smell the soap his mother used to wash the sheets, and the faint smell of leather from his whip as well. Invariably, his body relaxed, surrounded as it was by familiar things. But there was something else—another scent that was different from the rest but still lingered with his own. 

_Adrian_. His eyes shot open, and he sat bolt upright, looking around frantically. The memory of the previous night smashed into his head with the force of a battering ram, making him wince. He glanced at his left hand, which was wrapped carefully in a bandage that crisscrossed across his knuckles. He put a hand to his temple, and winced when he felt bandages wrapped around his head as well. 

He swung his legs out of bed, relieved to find that he was wearing the same clothes as he'd been wearing last night, though with the notable absence of his whip and sword. He saw his cloak slung over the back of a chair by the desk, seemingly innocuously. His weapons were nowhere to be seen.

He stumbled over to the bathroom, where at last he found evidence that it had indeed been Adrian who had tended to his wounds after he'd brought him back home—there was a small bowl with bloodstains smeared up the sides in the sink, and a ball of cotton sitting beside a long needle and thread, also spattered liberally with blood. There was a small piece of paper next to the cotton ball, folded neatly in half. Picking it up, he unfolded it to find a terse, to-the-point note, written in a looping, elegant hand. 

_Your weapons are under the mattress. Don't take your stitches out until tomorrow morning—you've got a mild concussion. Use yarrow for your hand every three hours. Don't do anything stupid, nor should I see you outside tonight. Burn this once you read it._

_Adrian_

He frowned at it, tucking it into his pocket as he looked into the mirror hanging above the sink. He looked all right, he supposed, for someone who had a concussion. He slowly unwrapped the bandages from his head, exposing the long, jagged set of stitches that ran from the corner of his eye into his hair. The stitches were neat and uniform, tied off immaculately. 

Sighing, he started to clean the counter, scrubbing at the bloodstains in the sink and disposing of the ball of cotton and needle. He stumbled off back to his bed once he'd cleaned the bathroom up, lifting the mattress and grabbing his weapons. Once he'd stuffed them back into their respective hiding places, he stripped off his shirt and fell back into bed, wincing; his head had started to throb again. 

Tired as he was, he couldn't sleep. All he could think of was what he'd seen the previous night, the woman who he'd known, but forgotten. The image of her was at the very back of his mind, but it kept slipping away from him, just out of reach. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember—her hair, had it been brown, or red? Her dress, had it been white or black?

He swore softly to himself, his eyes opening again. He didn't even know what he had seen—for all he knew, he could just have imagined the whole thing, like Adrian had suggested. But he had seen her eyes, he was sure of it. He knew her face. And he was sure she knew his as well. 

He sighed, turning over onto his side. He wondered how Adrian had known which balcony was his, and how the hell he'd lugged an unconscious Trevor up two floors. He supposed it was nice of him not to just have left him lying in the woods, and he also supposed he was to thank him now. That, and he owed him. Ugh.

 _Don't do anything stupid, nor should I see you outside tonight,_ the note had said. He sighed, rolling onto his back again. He didn't know what to think—what if who he had seen in the woods was who was killing those people? What if everyone who came across her thought they knew her, and that was what allowed her to rip them apart? If Adrian hadn't appeared on the scene in time, would Trevor have also been ripped apart? 

He scrubbed his hands across his face, sighing, pressing his fingertips to his eyes. He knew he was overthinking, as he usually did—convoluting his thoughts and making things that were already complicated even more so. It was still early, and his head was throbbing in earnest now. He settled deeper under the covers, closing his eyes. He slipped gratefully into sleep, and just before he went under, he realized where he'd seen the woman's eyes before.

He saw them every time he looked in a mirror.

* * *

He knew he should have listened to Adrian and stayed home that night. 

But he couldn't help it; he was restless, and pacing in his room and ignoring Roxanne's relentless banging on his door and shouting at him to get his useless arse out of bed wasn't doing him any good anyhow. 

So he slipped out his balcony, moving slowly to avoid triggering another headache—they'd been springing up all day at the oddest of times, like when he'd been passing the salt to his mother at lunch and nearly spilled it all over her lap as what had felt like a bolt of lightning speared into his head. He'd managed to cover up the stitches by pretending to have forgotten combing his hair, and when anyone asked about his hand, he lied that he'd burned himself in the fireplace, which, strangely enough, nobody questioned. 

He set off towards the village, moving quickly. He stayed dangerously close to the house, not wanting to go near the woods at all. Not after what had happened the previous night. 

Which was partly also why he'd decided not to stay home. 

He moved towards the village, staying in the shadows. He didn't know whether he'd see Adrian or not, since he'd said that he usually went into the village during the day. But perhaps, in Trevor's absence, he'd go in his stead. It seemed like the kind of stupidly noble and genuine thing he'd do. 

His fingers lingered on the neat row of stitches on his head, and tried to imagine Adrian in his _room_ , painstakingly tending to his wounds in the middle of the night. If their positions had been reversed, would Trevor have done the same for him? He'd liked to have thought so, but it was definitely a bigger risk to sneak unnoticed into Dracula's castle than it was to sneak into the Belmont manor anyway. 

Moreover, Adrian was haughty, and pompous, and a total brat. They weren't friends or anything like that—just temporary partners. A few weeks and he'd be wiping his hands of him and they'd never see each other again except for flimsy social events for which he had zero interest. Of course.

He was just about to move out of the woods when he hesitated, looking back into the trees. If he moved just a bit further in, then he would come to the spot where he'd seen whoever he'd seen the previous night. Maybe this time, when Adrian wasn't there, he would get more answers than he did last time. 

He bit his lip, his fingers tightening on the handle of his whip. It would be a small detour. Just half an hour or so. Then he could go and drink himself blackout drunk at the tavern and stumble home to nurse a hangover for the whole of tomorrow, then do the exact same thing again the next night. It was a solid plan. 

He nodded to himself decisively, then moved deeper into the forest, drawing his whip as he did. A few more minutes of navigating through the brambles and thickets that came in his way, and he arrived at where he and Adrian had first met, then fought the previous night. There weren't any bloodstains to substantiate it, but the tree to his left had an impressive chunk cut away from where Adrian's sword had sliced through the bark. 

He moved away from the stream, trailing a hand along the ruined bark of the tree as he did. Heading deeper into the trees, he walked silently, stepping carefully so as not to disturb any leaves that littered the ground. Treading carefully through the forest, he headed towards the place he'd seen the woman, navigating through the trees by vague memory. 

The single ray of moonlight stabbed down into the ground the same way it had the previous night, through a single gap in the trees. He knelt by the light, frowning at the ground around him. He picked up a leaf by his foot, examining the silvery surface. There didn't seem to be anything odd about it, nor did there seem to be anything odd about anything around him. 

He sighed, standing slowly, still looking around gingerly. He was dusting his hands off on his pants to get rid of the dirt on them when he caught sight of two points of light glowing in the dark a few feet away, from between the scattered bushes in the undergrowth. They were staring at him unblinkingly, glinting like chips of citrine.

His whole body went rigid, tensing like a taut bowstring. His fingers tightened bruisingly on the handle of his whip, and he automatically took a step back, narrowing his eyes and preparing to draw his whip at the slightest of provocations. 

The eyes blinked, and then the leaves rustled and parted, revealing a familiar figure—a wolf with a pelt whiter than snow, unnaturally large and equally unnaturally silent, with large golden eyes that were fixed on him with what he could clearly, even on a wolf, make out as displeasure. 

He relaxed, sighing as there was a flash of gold and black, which resolved itself into a scowling Adrian Tepes, his arms crossed across his chest. "I thought I told you not to come outside tonight," he said, his lower lip curling in a pout. "Do you never listen to anybody, or do you make a special effort just for me?"

He rolled his eyes. "You're nothing special, you bastard," he said. "I couldn't sleep, and I wanted to come back here to check it out, see if I'd missed anything last time."

"You have a concussion, for God's sake." He glided up to Trevor, peering at his head. "At least you've kept the stitches on," he sighed. "I wouldn't put it past you to have ripped them off earlier than you're supposed to."

"Oh, give me some credit." He scowled. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Adrian shrugged, looking away. "Same as you," he said. "I wanted to see if there was anything I missed last time. This place certainly smells of a light magic as compared to the rest of the forest, but I saw nothing." He glanced at Trevor, expressionless. "We certainly have a habit of meeting at all the wrong places at all the wrong times, don't we?"

"I suppose." He bit his lip, knowing he was supposed to thank Adrian for bringing him home the previous night, and for tending to his wounds and helping him. But the words weren't coming, and they stuck in his throat. It wasn't as if he wasn't grateful—he was. But admitting aloud that Adrian now had a one-up on him wasn't exactly on his bucket list. 

"I was going to head into the village," Adrian said, apparently oblivious to his turmoil. "Ask around, get some more information." He looked around at Trevor, wide-spaced golden eyes guileless. "You're welcome to join me, though if you'd prefer to stay here, you may."

"No, I'll come." He hurried after Adrian, who had started to move further into the trees. "So did you see anything weird this time around?" he asked, jerking his head in the direction from which they'd walked. Adrian shook his head in response. "Not really. Just a faint smell of magic, but there are spots like that all over the woods."

"Really?" He frowned. "I didn't realize."

"Yes, these aren't your regular woods," Adrian said offhandedly. "I suppose it could be a coincidence that there are traces of magic at the exact place you claimed to have seen someone—"

"I did see someone," Trevor protested. 

"—but it's far too strange not to delve deeper into," Adrian finished, ignoring Trevor. "However, I saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary, so I was just about to leave when I saw you."

Trevor grinned. "I bet you probably thought something along the lines of, _what a fucking dumbass_ ," he said. 

"Something like that." Adrian sent him a small smile. "I also deduced that you have a death wish the size of my father's castle, but we'll not go into that."

"No, no, let's," Trevor said, raising his brows with a smirk. "What prompted you to make that excellent observation?"

"You tell me." They cleared the last stretch of forest, and the sky opened up above them, an immeasurable expanse of blackness. The lights of the village glowed up ahead merrily, penetrating the darkness in a haze of golden. "Sometimes it makes me wonder if you care about your own life at all."

It seemed casual, almost offhanded, but it stung all the same, even though it shouldn't have. He said nothing, frowning at the ground as a heavy silence blanketed the next few minutes. There was no noise at all besides the crunch of gravel under their boots and the loud chirping of crickets, occasionally slicing open the otherwise almost awkward silence. 

Finally the first few houses came into view, and they had just crossed into the denser bit of the village when suddenly there was a shout, and three or four blurs came racing towards them, leaping onto Adrian. The blurs resolved themselves into four grinning children, clinging to Adrian and laughing. 

"Alucard!" one of them screeched. "You came back!"

"Of course I came back," laughed Adrian, who was holding all four children with ease. "You think I'd pass up the opportunity to surprise you all?"

They all giggled, pulling at his hair and talking at the same time, in excited chattering voices that reminded him of how it had been when he and his sisters had all been that small. "Alucard, guess what?" another little girl piped up, grinning. "I lost a tooth today!" She pointed at a gap right between her front teeth, proudly.

Adrian set her down, pulling at one of her braids. "Careless of you," he said with a smile. Then he turned, a strangely nostalgic expression on his face. "This is my"—he hesitated for a fraction of a second—"friend, Trevor."

"I know you!" one of the boys gasped, his eyes wide. "You saved my mother once." He beamed adorably at Trevor, who felt a smile tug at his lips almost against his will. "Did I?"

He nodded vigorously. "I told her that when I grow up, I wanna be like you," he smiled guilelessly. "I wanna save people too!"

"There are worse things to be, I suppose," said Trevor, ruffling his hair. Adrian was watching him, an odd look on his face. Half a second later it vanished, and he scooped up the little boy into his arms, bouncing him jovially. "Let's get you home now," he said, smiling. "Trevor and I have grown-up things to do."

The boy looped his arms around Adrian's neck, nodding. He was remarkably good with kids, thought Trevor. He'd never have thought he was the kind of guy who liked children, though there was still plenty he didn't know about Adrian, he thought as they moved further into the village, which was near-deserted in the lateness of the hour. 

"Hey, Adrian," Trevor said. Adrian turned, arms full of the grinning little boy, who was pulling at his hair. "I didn't thank you for yesterday," he said, the words spilling out to his own surprise as much as Adrian's. "For getting me home, and, well—" He gestured at the stitches on his head. "You could've left me there to bleed out, but you didn't. So thanks."

Adrian looked at him and smiled, and it was blinding in its genuineness. It struck Trevor suddenly that he looked impossibly young, and impossibly beautiful, and the world seemed to stop spinning for a few moments.

"You're welcome," he said.

* * *

"Is there anything that's happened since I last came here?" asked Adrian as they walked along the street, and the boy in his arms shook his head, then paused. "The blue people came," he said, blinking big brown eyes at Adrian, who frowned. "The blue people?"

"They wear blue," the boy said helpfully. "They came in moving houses yesterday morning. There are lots of them."

Adrian glanced at Trevor over the boy's shoulder, brows furrowed. _Speakers_ , he mouthed. 

_Oh, fabulous_ , thought Trevor. Now there were a tribe of Speakers to worry about as well. As if this situation wasn't already royally screwed up already. "Great," he muttered. "That's just what we need. Speakers."

Adrian shot him a sour look, and at almost the same time a scream rang out, a distant cry of horror from behind them—in the direction of the woods. They both stopped walking at the same time, both turning around. Adrian's arms tightened around the boy, then he set him down, kneeling in front of him so that their eyes were on a level. "Run home," he said quietly. "Lock your door. Tell anyone who'll listen to do the same. Go now!"

The boy didn't seem to need to be told twice; he nodded, eyes wide as saucers, then bolted away, kicking up dust as he ran. He vanished within seconds, and the moment he was out of sight, Adrian turned fluidly, his coat flapping around him. "Come on," he said, and set off striding towards the woods. Trevor hastened after him, a hand coming to rest on his whip. 

"You think something's happened?" he asked, slightly out of breath. 

"I don't know. Let's hope not," was all Adrian said in reply, tersely. 

There was already a crowd gathering when they arrived, and a low murmur was going around, a tide of worry and sadness. They both pushed through, moving towards the front, where Trevor saw a vague shape, lying on the ground, and a vivid flash of red that leaped out at him. _Oh, no._

This was the first of the bodies that he had actually seen, and it was as terrible as he had imagined—it was a mess of blood and bone, of pulped skin and bruises and muscle that trailed out of the gaping wound in the man's chest. He could see marks gouged into his skin that looked disturbingly like scratches made by nails, and he could see even from where he was standing that the heart was indeed missing. 

Adrian looked up at him, his face set in tight, unhappy lines. "We were too late," he said softly. "The wounds are fresh."

"Shit," Trevor breathed, passing a hand across his eyes. "Now what do we do?"

Adrian looked up, towards the trees that cast long shadows across the ground in spindly black lines that stretched across the dirt. They looked like the bars of a cage, as if telling them in a silent warning not to venture into the forest, not to meddle in something they had barely scratched the surface of. Adrian set his jaw, and in that moment he looked remarkably like his mother. 

"Now... now we go into the woods."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess you all know that this means the duo's going to become a trio soon...


	4. Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Feathers:** _Freedom, birthright, flight of the goddess of the sky._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late, as compared to my last chapter, but these chapters just seem to be getting longer and longer. 😅  
> 

**_Sypha_ **

The sun was high in the sky when they arrived. 

She was sitting cross-legged on top of her caravan, feeling the wind rip through the air, lifting the ends of her robes. The sky was the same color, a iridescent blue brighter even than a robin's egg. There wasn't a cloud in sight, and the sunlight pooled around her, making her robes stick to her back with sweat. 

She knew her grandfather didn't like it when she sat on the caravan rather than inside it, but she loved it up here—it was so much brighter, so much more open, and she could see for miles in every direction, the landscape opening up below her and all around her. 

It was her escape, her own little pocket of space—space, which was so difficult to obtain in a Speaker camp, where everyone lived so close together that sometimes she couldn't breathe for how near everyone was. She loved it, and it was how she had grown up, but oftentimes she had found herself straying away from the group, moving towards the openness of the wilderness that she wanted so badly. 

And sometimes, she would wonder why she ever wanted that, when she was surrounded by the knowledge of generations and the books of her people. She was so torn between the two halves of what she wanted that most of the time she didn't know _what_ she wanted. Whether she wanted freedom or knowledge, wilderness or erudition.

The caravan moved over a particularly bumpy bit of road and it jostled her from her thoughts, making her jump. She looked up, and saw the road widen, dirt and gravel turning to cobbled stone. To her left, the forest began, an imposingly tall line of trees that stabbed into the sky. Her eyes lingered on it—something about it seemed strange to her, as if it wasn't was it seemed to be. 

The small village lay about a mile to the right, unassuming beside the oddity of the forest. The air shimmered with heat above the stone houses, their thatched roofs dry and lifeless. People milled about, not as many as there had been in the cities they'd crossed over the past few months, but enough for the place to seem busy. 

They crossed into the village, the caravan bumping along the cobblestone road. It slowed marginally as they drew into the village center, and Sypha slid from the roof, landing on her feet next to the wheels, her legs shaky from the long journey and her feet aching in their sandals. She flexed her toes, sighing and walking alongside the slowing caravan as it stopped, waving to the one behind her to do the same.

She moved over to the door, flinging it open and allowing the sunlight to stream into the cramped space inside, and revealing the frowning faces of her comrades. "How long must we stay here?" she asked, moving inside and shutting the door, leaning against the wall to catch her breath—the sun had drained her energy more than she'd have thought. 

She already didn't like the village; it was too closed, too inwards. There were few people, and that meant that there would be more talk, and more stares, and more muttering. News got around faster in a smaller place, and moreover, she'd already counted about seventeen scowls at their caravans. 

"Only a short while," her grandfather said, nodding to her. "Only as long as we need to." She translated that into _A few hours,_ in her mind, knowing that they never stayed in one place longer than that. The people never took kindly to their presence, nor did they hide it. She'd learned to ignore them by herself—when she'd been younger, she had snapped back at people, but over time she had understood why everyone else stood in silence, and had held her tongue. 

She opened the doors again, and they all spilled out into the square, the other caravans emptying as well. They were a large bunch, about thirty in all—they'd hooked up with another train a few miles south, a larger one. She knew they would stay here only as long as it took to gather supplies for the road, and then they would be gone. Perhaps they'd preach in the larger cities this time, where there was more space and less sneering.

She let herself move away from the rest of the group, slowly separating herself from the masses and moving along a more deserted road, where the neatly cobbled roads turned to a more worn stone, and the houses that lined the sides of the street seemed old and abandoned. The people were even more scarce here, and she found herself savoring the silence, the sound of the wind blowing through the alleys and the lazy buzzing of bees in the bushes. 

Trailing a hand along the bruised, broken wall of one of the abandoned houses, she let her mind wander as much as her feet, not thinking about where she was going. It was only when she nearly bumped into someone that she was broken from her reverie, moving back hastily so as not to trip on her robes. 

"I'm sorry," she said, gripping her robe with a hand and putting the other up to her eyes to block the sunlight that streamed down into her face. "I wasn't looking where I was going—"

The woman she had bumped into merely waved a hand, not even looking at Sypha before beginning to move away. Sypha scowled at her as she retreated, then made to turn back, resuming her aimless walk. She had taken only a step or two when the woman's voice called out, stopping her. 

"Speakers?" she asked, and Sypha turned, nodding almost defensively. "We only just arrived," she said by way of explanation. 

The woman said nothing. She seemed young enough, perhaps in her thirties, with thick red curls pulled into a bun and round cheeks. "How long will you stay?" Sypha could detect nothing from her tone; whether she shared the sentiment of her fellow villagers and wished them gone, or didn't care, Sypha couldn't tell. 

"We'll be gone by tonight," she said.

"Good," said the woman, and Sypha was prepared to glare a bit and then turn haughtily, but then the woman nodded, looking down. "You don't need to be here to witness what's going on at this time," she said. "It's good that you'll leave before anything can happen to you and yours."

"What do you mean?" Her brows furrowed, and she took a step closer, worried and intrigued and excited all at once. "What's going on?"

"We don't know." Her eyes were large and sad, a dark green like that of pine needles. "All we do know is that something wants our sons—it takes them and it steals their hearts and keeps them for itself, whatever it is."

Sypha frowned. "Steals their hearts? You mean... metaphorically, or...?"

"Oh, no," said the woman. "It rips them open and takes their hearts and then gives their mangled bodies back to us like some sort of compensation for taking them in the first place."

"What?" Sypha couldn't believe her ears. "It rips them open and takes their _hearts_?"

She nodded solemnly. "Clean down to the bone."

"How many people has it taken?" She found herself morbidly fascinated by the whole thing, grotesque as she thought it was. 

"Five so far," said the woman. "My son was one of them. He was the first one they found."

"I'm so sorry." Sypha bit her lip, not knowing what to say. "That must have been terrible. Is anyone doing anything about it?"

"There's a young man who comes by day and another who comes by night," the woman said. "They never say their names, but... rumors fly around in a place so small, and perhaps something might be done about it."

"But whatever's doing this can't be human, can it?" Sypha's brain ticked over the possibilities, impossibly fast—running over everything she had heard and learned about anything supernatural in all her life. "It has to be something else."

"We don't know," said the woman. "We don't go into the woods."

"The woods," repeated Sypha, spinning around and gazing at the tall silent line of trees, still in the midday sun, the lazy breeze rustling the leaves in a rippling green wave. "So that's where they find the bodies?" She rounded on the woman again, determined, and perhaps even a little demanding—but once she caught onto something, nothing could get her to let go. "You said it only takes your sons—have any of your women gone in to see what might be going—?"

"Of course not." The woman looked terrified at the very thought, her face going white. "We don't want to lose more than we've already lost." She frowned at Sypha, her eyes sad. "Leave when you still can, Speaker girl," she said. "Take your people and go."

Sypha shook her head, backing away as she did, one of her hands fisting into her robe to lift it away from her feet, baring her ankles to the balmy air. "I can't." The words tumbled from her lips. "I—we can't—not when I could find out what this thing is. I could save your people!" When the woman hesitated, Sypha half-turned, making to run back to her caravan, to tell them that they couldn't go, not now when she could finally do something, something worthwhile and something that could set her free.

"I'm sorry," she said, though she didn't even know what she was sorry for. "I—I have to go—we can't leave, not now. I have to stay here."

"But why?" asked the woman, shaking her head. "Why do you need to stay here? You, who has nothing to gain?"

Sypha hesitated. _Because I want to prove that I'm not a little girl anymore,_ said one part of her. _I want to show people that I'm not what they think I am. I can be just as brave and just as intelligent as any man, if not more so._ But another part of her knew that it wasn't a Speaker thing to run away from danger. When the people needed help, and she could do something about it, then she would. She had to.

"Because I have nothing to lose, either," she said, then turned and ran back to the caravan, moving through the streets by memory. Her feet kicked up puffs of dust with every step she took, but she raced on. And she didn't look back.

* * *

"We have to," she pleaded, trying as hard as she could to keep her voice down, not wanting to invite stares from passers-by. "We can't just leave when people are literally being torn open—"

"Sypha, no," said Arn, glaring at her. Her grandfather was sitting peacefully to the side, his hands folded in his lap and his eyes closed as they argued. His expression didn't shift even minutely, even when Sypha's voice rose, hitching slightly as she forced it back down, knowing what everyone was thinking. _Speakers don't fight, they don't raise their voices, and they certainly don't want to solve grotesque murder mysteries._

"Why not?" she shot back. "Is it like us to just leave as if the people don't matter to us, when something so terrible is happening to them? They're all losing sons so young, they're all you're age, Arn."

"It doesn't matter," he said, folding his arms across his chest, frowning stubbornly. If she had to pick a second most unconstitutional Speaker after her, it would have been Arn, but he was better at being civil than she was. "We can't just drop whatever we were doing and stay here, even if the people might need help."

"Whatever we were doing? What exactly were we doing before this?" She mimicked his stance, crossing her arms and attempting to stare him down even if he had about a head and a half on her—but then, almost every person she met usually did. "We were just wandering about, and that's what we're going to do once we leave here. Why can't we stay here and help these people—"

"I understand what you're saying, Sypha," he sighed. "But you need to do the same. We only stopped here for a few hours, and we can't afford to get caught up in whatever's going on here."

"Even if there are people dying?" She raised an eyebrow. "And we can help?"

"I know why you really want to stay here, Sypha," he said, his frown deepening. "You care about the people, but I know you just want to prove yourself and that you've never done anything like this before—"

"That's _not_ why I want to stay here!" She glared at him, blushing, angry that he'd rooted out her motives so quickly. "That's ridiculous."

"You know it's true, Sypha." He raised an eyebrow. "You've always wanted to rush into danger without a second thought, and you never understand what it does to the people around you, how much your rash thinking affects us all. You just run headlong into whatever comes your way, and you don't spare a thought for what it means for everyone else."

It stung, and she balked, her hands clenching into fists. "Why don't you want to stay here?" she demanded, gritting her teeth. "What's so terrible about wanting to help people who need it?"

"Didn't you hear the people?" He gestured wildly at the houses on either side of the caravan. "They don't want your help, Sypha—there are two men who come here every day to do just that. They believe in them, not us. They've never believed in us, we've always been the outsiders."

"How do you even know?" She turned away, furious. "It's not fair! Every time I want to do the right thing, I can't! What's the point of being a Speaker when all we care about is our dusty old memory stores and our stories that nobody ever wants to hear? Why are we even here, then?"

"That's going too far, Sypha," Arn said sharply. "That's not true."

"It's exactly true." She scowled at him. "And you know it. What are we doing here? If we can't even help these people, are we even really doing what we're supposed to be? You really believe that this whole thing is going to be solved by two people who don't even tell the people their names?"

"Well, the people definitely believe that more then they'll ever believe in us if we ever try to do this." He scowled at her. "We can't stay here, Sypha. That's final."

" _Don't_ patronize me." She glared up at him. "I'm going to stay here, even if you're not, and I'm going to find out whatever's tearing these people apart, and I'm going to do it alone if I have to."

He threw up his hands, turning away in exasperation, letting out a huff. "Fine. Do whatever you want, Sypha. You always do, anyway."

She stomped over to her grandfather, dropping to her knees beside his chair. "Please, grandfather, I can't just leave here," she said, desperation clawing up her spine. This was her one and only chance to finally get out there, use what she had learned and use the power in her hands and blood. "You know I can handle myself, and you know I can help."

"I do know, Sypha." He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I have no doubt in your potential. I also know it is dangerous, and you may not return should you go into the woods alone."

"But I have my—"

"I know." He closed his eyes again. "And yes, should you wish it, then we will indeed stay and try to aid as much as we possibly can."

Arn sighed, shaking his head and moving towards the caravan, muttering something about insolence and favoritism. "But the rest of the caravans will have to leave," her grandfather said without opening his eyes. "Only we can stay here."

"That's fine." She rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as well. "It doesn't matter. As long as I can do what I have to."

His hand came to rest on her shoulder, gentle but firm, as her grandfather himself was in all regards. "Then we will help these people and help you," he said. "We will see it done."

* * *

Evening fell, and night fell after it. It was so different from nights at the camp, when only a thin trail of smoke from their fire would hang between them and the sky, which she knew as unfathomable and impossibly dark and scattered across with a thousand billion stars. But here, the lights of the village seemed to cloud it from sight, and the heavier smoke from dozens of chimneys hid the stars.

She was sitting at a crowded tavern, alone at a table pushed right to the corner, half-hidden by shadow. Her hood was up, covering her face, and there was an untouched mug of ale in front of her. She'd bought it for appearance's sake only, not wanting to seem too conspicuous—she was already getting stares from her robes and the way it was covering her face. Thankfully it was shapeless enough to hide her figure, and nobody was bothering her. 

She liked it here, in the crowded, dingy tavern, with so much life around her—nothing was still, and nobody was quiet, and it was more alive than any number of Speakers together. There was something to look at wherever she looked, and the drink flowed like water, keeping the laughter unbounded and the singing endless.

Everyone had warned her not to stay out too late, not to go anywhere questionable alone, not to mingle with anyone unsavory. She'd come here anyway, drawn to the ruckus of normalcy, the chaos of an unorganized way of living. She'd been sitting there nearly an hour, just soaking it all in, letting the noise and the smell of sweat and stale beer wash over her. It sort of made her want to throw up, but she persisted. 

Until the door banged open, and a scream rang out, loud and clear from outside. 

The whole tavern fell silent at once, a sudden and almost eerie hush falling over everyone inside. It wasn't a silence that seemed as if it was sudden, but rather something that they seemed used to, as if they had grown somehow accustomed to this; already a low murmur was spreading, people's smiles slipping and the singing fading away to nothing. 

The man who had come inside looked around at everyone's faces, and nodded once. "Another one," he said. "There's another one. It's happened again."

Sypha's fingers tightened bruisingly around the handle of her mug of ale, her heartbeat quickening as she stood suddenly, her chair scraping back. Nobody even glanced her way as she hurried from the tavern, leaving the slowly swelling murmuring of the people behind, their distressed, hushed talk and the sadness that seemed almost palpable in the air, like cold, unforgiving mist. 

She raced down the street, her hood falling as she ran. She paid it no mind, letting her hair be tossed about by the cool breeze that blew through the village—was she imagining it, or did it carry the faint, coppery tang of blood with it?

There was already a crowd, one that pulsed with distress and sorrow. She squeezed her way to the center, and as she got closer she really could smell it—the heavy, iron stench of blood, the weight that it lent to the air and the way it made her stomach turn over. She had never liked the sight of smell of blood, though she knew she had to put those discomforts aside. She couldn't afford weakness now. 

"You're in the wrong place, Speaker girl," said an older man, his jaw set and his eyes hard, stopping her as she pushed through the crowd. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know what's going on," she said, trying to sound as diplomatic as possible despite the racing of her heart. "I'm here to find out what's happening, and why—"

"You don't want to know what or why." His voice cut through hers brutally, the same way a hundred men had done before, as if they thought they knew better. "What you want to do is get the hell out of here as fast as you can."

"I don't think I want to," she said, an edge creeping into her voice. "I know what I'm doing here, sir. I decided to stay here. So please, let me through."

He stepped aside, but as she passed him she heard him say, "You'll wish you listened to me yet, little girl."

When she finally got to the center of the crowd, she had to stop and close her eyes and take in deep breaths through her mouth to keep her knees from giving way, feeling faint. And she had to bite her lip hard to ignore the way every nerve and impulse in her body was screaming at her to run as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

When the woman earlier that day had said _takes their hearts,_ she had imagined something along the lines of a clean wound to the chest, something almost orderly, since there had been so many kills—it had never occurred to her that the bodies might be entirely unrecognizable as human altogether. 

Because this one was. 

All she could see was blood, everywhere, covering everything—she couldn't even tell what color the boy's skin had been in life; in death, there was only red. His chest had been ripped apart in bloody ribbons, with pulped tissue and other organs spilling out of the horrifying wound. She could see clean down to the bone, the shimmery white of his rib cage, snapped awkwardly to expose the heart; which was notably absent, since she could see—and had to look away quickly before she vomited—his lungs and even his stomach, uprooted and lying carelessly as if whatever had killed him hadn't bothered doing it cleanly. Or even tolerably. 

She stumbled, but was buoyed up by the moving crowd, the tangle of arms and legs behind her. She managed to stand straight, though her legs felt shaky. _Oh, God,_ she thought. _What am I doing here? Why did I ever think I could do anything against something that performs such horrors?_

She turned to get away from it, to run as far away from the horrible mangled body as possible. She couldn't breathe, suffocated by the smell of blood and the weight of sadness in the air, choking on the people's fear and her own and her own helplessness. She had to get away. 

She shoved through the crowd, unable to breathe. There were too many people, too many tears and lips curved down into expressions of anguish. The next few minutes were a tangle of people and sweat and itchy heat, and suddenly she was gasping in lungfuls of cold, clean air, free of the crowd and the grisly sight of the body.

Somehow she had run all the way to the edge of the village, where there was nobody in the streets and where the lamps were low, casting murky yellow light onto the ground. The woods lay only a few hundred yards to her left, dark and silent and ever watchful. A cold wind blew, lifting her hair, easing her breath, loosening her throat. She breathed deeply, feeling her heart slow with every breath. 

She shuddered, coming back to herself slowly. Turning, she could see the village, the houses and their chimneys still spilling smoke into the air. And in front of her lay the forest, completely still. She couldn't even hear the leaves rustling in the wind, which carried with it the smell of earth and the cloying rot of nature. As she inhaled the scent of the woods, she stiffened suddenly. There was something else, something sharp, a tang of energy, like a zing of ozone. Something that surrounded her whenever she harnessed the elements. Something terribly familiar. 

It was the smell of magic. 

Her heartbeat took flight again, but this time it wasn't fear—it was excitement. She'd known whatever was killing the people wasn't human. But to now realize that it was something that used magic narrowed the list down considerably, and it also gave her a slight advantage. From all the jumbled thoughts in her brain and the possibilities and theories and questions emerged a single, coherent thought. 

_I need to go into the woods._

She looked back, a thrill going through her. She knew she had to. And she knew that she wasn't supposed to. She could tell her grandfather that she had gone to the outskirts to see if there was anything there, or she could tell him the truth and say that she'd gone and her put her head right into the lion's mouth.

She chanced one last glance back at the lonely, deserted streets, the wind whistling through the gaps between the houses and the single lamp that spilled a perfect circle of yellow light onto the ground. Then she turned back around, at the tall, silent line of trees that carried the smell of magic, and held so many mysteries. And then she turned, and walked towards the forest. 

The trees swallowed her immediately, soaking her in a darkness so absolute that she couldn't even see her own hands when she held them in front of her. After unsuccessfully predicting that her eyes would adjust within a few minutes—and bumping into trees and stumbling into bushes as a result—she finally gave in, allowing the tiniest of flames to spring to life in her palm. 

It lit the space around her only to a foot or two, which allowed her to walk unwaveringly, but also gave out a flare to anything that might have vision better than hers. She braved the risk anyway, knowing there wasn't any other option. Moving forward quickly, she followed the smell of magic, making sure she wasn't simply being misled by her own. It was heady and fresh, which made her heart leap—she actually had a lead. 

She left long, smearing burns on the bark of the trees she passed every few yards, making sure she would be able to find her way back to the clear. The trail she was following wasn't by smell alone—she felt it draw her to it, like a magnet; as if there was something about the magic that lived inside both her and whatever she was moving towards, something that pulled her forward. 

She heard the river before she saw it; the low, dull roar of rapids and the rush of water. It came into view a few minutes later, rushing through the forest like a great liquid serpent, snaking through the trees. The opposite bank was only a few feet across, but the river itself was almost violent, crashing through its given course as if rebellious. 

The pull inside her chest stopped.

She stilled, the fire dancing in her fingers dimming, shrinking into a lick of flame smaller than candlelight. She looked around, moving over to the banks and crouching down beside the water, peering into its rippling surface. Her own distorted reflection gazed back at her—too-wide blue eyes, wayward strawberry curls that never stayed down no matter how many times she combed it. Her face was pale, her cheeks pink from exertion. 

She stood up again, then froze. 

She closed her fingers suddenly around the little flame in her hand, extinguishing it instantly. The action plunged her in darkness once again, and all she could see now was the glint of moonlight off the water, and faint, blurred shapes surrounding her. She had seen something, something moving in the shadows of the opposite bank. Even from here she could see vague shapes shifting on the other side of the river, two shapes. 

From where she was standing, it looked like the silhouettes of two people, their voices faint in the wind. As they neared, she saw their outlines—one tall and slender, one stockier, but nearly as tall. Backing quietly into the shadows of a massive tree by the bank, she listened. 

"...nothing here," said a voice, one that sounded faintly bored and was drawn out in an almost lazy drawl. It was definitely a man's voice, deep and rich. "You think it did what it came out to do and then left?"

"No," said the other man. His voice was softer, smoother, and somehow reminded her of silk and chocolates and champagne. It was strange, but there it was. "I can practically see the traces of magic here."

"Not to impede upon your extremely reliable vampire skills," said the first man, and a thrill of fear and shock shot down her spine. _Vampire?_ "But you said that the last time we were here, too."

"Yes," the vampire said testily. "But in case you forgot, Belmont, the last time we were here, you ran after a wraith which you claimed vanished right after. Perhaps it has something to do with that."

Her head spun. _Vampire. Belmont. Wraith. Vanished._ What on earth was going on? 

"Oh, so now we're back to 'Belmont' again." She heard a sigh. "Should've known that wouldn't last. Or maybe I should get concussions more often, since it seems to make a mother hen out of you." He sounded amused. 

"Would you rather I left you bleeding on the forest floor with God-knows-what lurking about in the dark?" There was a rustle, then a soft whoosh of air, and she peeked around the trunk of the tree just in time to see a pair of shiny black boots come to rest on her side of the bank, unnaturally lightly. Another pair followed, landing with slightly less grace, but still with enough balance and precision to suggest experience, and plenty of it. 

"Well, if you put it that way, no." There was a pause. Then:

"I never asked you how the hell you found my room and hauled my ass up two floors on a wall," he said, and he sounded genuinely perplexed. "And how I didn't die in the process."

She could hear the smugness in the vampire's voice when he spoke again, relish curling around the words. "I do have my secrets, Belmont. And as for the balcony, I simply picked the only open one and hoped for the best."

She heard the sound of rustling leaves, and her heart jackknifed into her throat as she crept as soundlessly as she could around the trunk of the tree to remain hidden as the two men continued back in the direction Sypha came, apparently done with their investigation. She pulled her hood over her face, hiding her features in shadow as she held her breath. She kept her eyes on their retreating backs, at the mass of blond tresses and the shock of untidy black spikes that moved away steadily. 

She darted quietly to another tree, staying hidden as she followed them, keeping to the shadows—as far away as she could get without losing sight of them, and as close as she could get without getting out of earshot. 

"Oh, go on, tell me." She could tell by the arch of the Belmont's cheek that he was grinning. "Can you fly? Is that it? Or did you use the thing?"

"The... thing?" The vampire's voice was drier than dry. 

"The teleporting thing," he said by way of explanation. He sort of sounded like an eager child talking about a magic trick he'd seen; a little skeptical, but still full of wonder about something he didn't quite fully understand. 

"Oh, for God's sake. Let it alone, Belmont. How does it matter how I hauled you up two floors as long as I hauled you up there in one piece?" He sounded exasperated. "We're not here to discuss that, anyway."

Sypha darted behind another tree, squinting at their backs as she moved along with them, making sure her feet were as silent as they could be on the forest floor. So far she was moving steadily behind them, and they hadn't seemed to have noticed her creeping along and tailing them like a shadow. 

"It's not like we actually found evidence of anything," said the Belmont, and she thought she could actually hear him roll his eyes. "Maybe I actually should come here alone some day and see what happens—"

"How many times am I supposed to tell you that's the stupidest fucking idea you've probably ever had in your life—?" The vampire's exasperated huff broke off suddenly into abrupt silence, and there was a rustle, then a whisper she couldn't quite make out. When she peeked out from the trunk she was behind again, the forest in front of her was empty. 

She blinked at the space where she had seen the two men not five seconds ago, where now there was only a few scattered leaves, swirling about in the breeze that darted through the forest. She looked right and left, still cautious, but it was as if they'd both vanished into thin air. 

She carefully emerged from her hiding place, her brows furrowing. Moving over to the tree in front of which they had just been standing, she allowed a hand to trail over the rough bark, feeling the uneven surface on the pads of her fingertips. _Where on earth did they go?_

As if in answer to her question there was a sudden gust of air above her, and she gasped and leaped back just in time for a black and golden blur to suddenly appear next to her and another red and gold blur to appear on her other side. She felt something beginning to take hold of her arm and acted out of pure, driven instinct, her fingers flicking upwards. 

She heard a hiss as a fire exploded in her hands, burning up her skin. Tucking into a ball, it shot towards her attacker, who leaped aside as it shot towards him. She jerked away from the man on her other side, sending a shard of deadly sharp ice aimed straight for his heart. She heard a startled curse, then heard the crack of taut leather. Her shard was knocked aside, shattering on the ground once it fell. 

She spun away, hands up, facing both of them. She could tell clearly now that one of them was a vampire—his skin was moon white, pale and luminous as alabaster, and his eyes were burnished gold, gleaming in the dimness like a cat's. Long, voluminous blond tresses spilled down his shoulders and back, framing his finely boned face. His features were fine, feline, delicate almost; large, almond-shaped eyes, soft lips, elegant cheekbones. He was tall and willowy and slender, and he was holding a blade—a long, silver sword that was nearly as long as he was. 

And beside him was the Belmont—a stark contrast to the vampire, accentuated even more so by the way they were standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. Tanned where the vampire was pale, with eyes that shone bluer than the purest flame and messy dark hair that stuck out all around his head. He managed to make it look rugged and handsome rather than looking like he'd just rolled out of bed, though. His fingers were closed around the handle of a long leather whip, which trailed along the ground in front of him.

She was just about to drop her hood and tell them she meant no harm when a blur of serpentine black came whistling towards her, forcing her to act on instinct and spin away from the whip's greedy coils. Ducking, she sent out a spike of ice as thick as her forearm towards the vampire, who swept his blade up and sliced it in half in midair as he advanced, his feet moving across the ground with such grace that it looked as if he was flying. 

A lick of fire snaked through the air, and while the Belmont dodged it easily, his whip wasn't so lucky. It caught a spark, and then flame was licking up the thick leather, racing towards his hand as it slid up the whip's glimmering length. She heard him swear again, and after an unsuccessful attempt to shake off the flame, he tossed the whip aside and drew a short sword, facing her again, snarling. 

The vampire spun towards her and she moved back as fast as she could, holding her hands up, palms facing him. "Wait!" she cried. "Don't!"

His eyes narrowed, as if realizing the cadence of the voice he had just heard wasn't a man's. Still he advanced, albeit more slowly this time. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice harsh. She could see the glint of pearly white fang teeth, long and needle-thin and sharp enough to tear through bone. She fought down a shiver of fear and revulsion, swallowing hard.

"I'm a Speaker," she said, closing her fists. "I mean no harm."

"A magician?" asked the Belmont, still glaring at her. She nodded. 

The vampire's sword flashed, directly in front of her face, a glittering blur of silver. She flinched—and then the edge caught harmlessly on the edge of her hood, drawing it down and baring her face to the cool night air. The blade flashed again as he lowered it, not sheathing it but keeping it ready at his side. 

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, and she could see the confusion in his face as he beheld her own. Clearly he hadn't been expecting a girl, nor did she think he'd been expecting a girl so young. She was older than she looked though, at nearly twenty-one. Most people thought she was sixteen. 

"I could ask you the same." Now that she had gotten over her initial shock, and the startle of adrenaline that had coursed through her briefly when they had attacked had worn off, it left her faintly wobbly-kneed but growing rapidly aware. Her bravado was also returning bit by bit, which made her stand straighter, her chin tilting upwards. She was still so short she only came till about his chest, but she didn't care. 

"You were the one following us," he said, his voice lilting charmingly. His fingers had loosened considerably on the hilt of his blade, but she was willing to bet that he could spring into action with next to no warning. 

"You were being loud," she replied, folding her arms across her chest. She saw the Belmont's eyebrows shoot upwards, but he said nothing. "And I didn't know who you are, and I still don't."

"You're alone," he pointed out, and she knew immediately from his tone what he really meant. _You're alone, and you're a girl, and you have no idea what you're up against._

She bristled. "And you're a vampire traveling with a vampire hunter. Who are you to judge?"

He blinked, his face going slack and his eyes widening, as if she'd caught him off guard for a few seconds—and then the Belmont burst out laughing, sheathing his blade as he nearly doubled over, dissolving into a fit of laughter. "Oh, she got you there," he snorted, wiping the corner of his eye. "She got you good."

"Shut up," the vampire snapped, cheeks pinking. Sypha allowed herself the tiniest of smiles as he looked her over with a seemingly renewed sense of interest. There was something almost appraising in his glance, as if he was warring with himself whether to take her into his confidence.

Apparently she passed his test, because a few seconds later he sheathed his blade, looking her up and down. "I'm only half-vampire," he said finally, nodding to her, his expression unreadable. "You may have heard of my father, Vlad Dracula Tepes—he's quite the folk tale around these parts—"

"Wait," she interrupted, feeling her eyes going wide. "You... you're Dracula's son? Dracula has a wife? A _human_ wife?"

He only nodded slightly, still looking at her critically. She tried not to shrink under his gaze, holding herself more upright. "And as far as I know," she went on, turning to the Belmont, who was gingerly picking up his whip from where he had cast it aside previously, "the Belmonts don't fight monsters anymore. I thought you'd been pacified by the Church."

He shrugged. "Well, then I've got to be quiet, don't I?"

She stared. "Who are you two?"

The vampire—half-vampire—smiled rather guiltily, moving towards her. "I understand that all this must be rather strange and overwhelming," he said. "But—"

"No," she said. "Who are you? What are your names? And what are you doing here together? What led you here?"

They exchanged a brief look—and the Belmont was the first to look away, shrugging carelessly. "So long as you don't go around telling people this," he said. "We met a few nights ago, the night they found the fifth body, which I assume you know all about already. "We've been looking into it ever since. I'm Trevor—"

"Adrian," chimed in the half-vampire.

"—and we have zero leads." He raised an eyebrow. "I believe it's your turn for show and tell now, little miss Speaker magician."

She scowled at him, hating his guts already. "Sypha Belnades," she said, trying not to sound haughty and rude, but failing rather miserably. "I arrived here this morning, and I found out about the killings from one of the locals whose son was the first to be murdered. They all know you and talk about you, the two men who come by night and day and who everyone believes will save the village."

"Oh, bless them, they think we're going to save them all." Trevor grinned at Adrian, lips kicking up into a easy but nasty smile. "Poor things."

"I was around when they found the body tonight," she went on, ignoring him. "I came here to see if there was anything I could use to try and see what's killing the men."

"Why?" Trevor pressed, narrowing his eyes at her. 

"Because it's the right thing to do," she said, glaring at him. "Because I think these people don't deserve to have their sons and grandsons torn apart beyond recognition, and not when I can do something to stop it. I was given this gift for a reason." She flexed her fingers, allowing a curl of fire to writhe around her palm. "I'm not going to sit around and wait for someone else do do it for me."

"So noble," Trevor said loftily, cocking his head to the side. 

"So why do _you_ care about these people?" She raised an eyebrow, miffed. "Why are you helping? Do you actually care about what your family stands for, or are you just bored? Maybe you just like the ambiance, or the company?"

He glared right back at her. "I care," he said shortly. "I care more than you think."

She felt her upper lip curl into the barest of sneers. "Well, it doesn't seem that way to me."

"You don't know me," he said, his voice growing very quiet. "Don't act like you know anything, you don't know the first thing about me."

"I've known you all of fifteen minutes, but I think I've come close enough," she snapped. "And I don't know if you do it on purpose, if you just want to be seen this way—either way, you're doing a fantastic job of coming off as someone who doesn't seem to care at all."

"And _you_ haven't painted a pretty picture of yourself either, just so you know," he snapped. "Don't use your 'Speaker perspective' shit on me."

"Well, at least I'm honest, then," she said, thrusting her chin up. "I don't think the same can be said for you, Trevor Belmont."

"You—"

"All right, enough," Adrian cut in, stepping swiftly between them. "Not even half an hour and everyone's at each other's throats." He frowned at Trevor rather sternly. "Don't antagonize everyone," he said. "It hurts more than it helps, and you might want to try and actually deal with these things like an adult someday. It would do you a great deal of good." After a brief pause, he said, "And I don't think it'd kill you to be nice, either."

Trevor said nothing, just glaring at Sypha from behind Adrian's back. "Whatever," he said finally. "Look, you go your way, we'll go ours. We'll see who gets there first."

Adrian looked half-desperate and half-pleading, his lips parting. "Wait, no—"

"Deal." She stood on tiptoe to see him better over the curve of Adrian's arm, hands balling into fists. "As long as you don't bother me, I won't bother you."

"Fine," he spat.

"Fine," she spat back. 

"For God's sake," Adrian said weakly, looking at them helplessly. "Can't we at least try to handle this like rational adults and not egoistic teenagers?"

"And what happened to your Speaker policies of no fighting?" demanded Trevor, knocking Adrian's arm aside and ignoring him. "Slipped your mind?"

"Maybe that would have worked out for all of us if you weren't so rude," she snapped. "Maybe, if you didn't apparently provoke everyone you meet, that would make more sense."

"Fine, then," he said again. "If that's how you want it, then fine."

He turned on his heel and stomped off away from the village, vanishing into the trees within minutes. Adrian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with a gloved hand. "I suppose that could have gone better," he said. 

She stuck her nose in the air. "He's rude."

"I wholly agree." He sighed. "I should..." He jerked his head apologetically towards the space where Trevor had stalked off. "I should go after him before he gets himself into too much trouble."

She nodded stiffly. "All right."

He inclined his head. "I'll see you around, then."

She frowned. "But—"

"You said you'd stay out of Trevor's way, not mine." He smiled at her blindingly, and, fangs or not, he was startlingly prepossessing, with a near-inhuman allure in his face that still seemed normal somehow. "Good night, Sypha."

Without waiting for a reply he loped off the way Trevor had vanished, leaving her alone with the wind and the faint smell of magic still lingering in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, don't freak, Treffy and Sypha will come to their senses soon enough, I've got so many plans for these three, but especially for those two. *cackles*


	5. Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Bells:** _The expansion of consciousness, the music of angels._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, these chapters really are getting longer with every one.  
> Yay, this is early!! And unfortunately, the next chapter might take a little time; my family is going through a tough spot right now, and it may take a while for me to get back on track with writing the next chapter.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this one in the meantime!!

**_Adrian_ **

He was in his mother's lab—or, at least, that's what he called it. His father simply called it her 'room', and his mother herself didn't even have a name for it. Whenever she said, "I'm going upstairs," they knew she meant this room. 

He loved it here; it was filled with shelves like a library, towering shelves that reached up towards the ceiling high above. And each shelf was crammed with herbs and leaves, shrubs and flowers, buds and stalks and roots, all in little glass jars. Each and every jar had a little slip of paper stuck onto it, with the common name of the herb, Latin name and its uses written on it in a neat, uniform hand. 

He moved to the far west side of the room, where the entire wall was one huge picture window, made of thick, tempered crystal. The sill was wide enough to sit on, and he had taken to sitting there so often that he had eventually equipped it with a thin mattress and pincushions, transforming it into a small pocket of space he usually escaped to. Sometimes he even fell asleep there while reading or researching, and he'd always wake up in the morning to the sound of tinkling glass and soft humming as his mother worked, with a blanket tucked around his sleeping form.

He'd come to adore this room, where, on the far right stood a counter that ran along two whole walls, where his mother usually mixed herbs and did little experiments that had fascinated him as a child. Even now there was a small glass jar blown in the shape of a sphere that was filled with dark green liquid simmering over a flame on the counter, smelling strongly of eucalyptus. 

There were books here, too, in shelves that lay against the wall to his left. There were only about eight shelves of them, but the amount of knowledge they held was beyond vast. There were books in every language imaginable, and through reading them he'd mastered them all. 

He plucked one of the shelf presently, then moved over to the window, folding himself onto the sill and opening the book. If he glanced out the window he could see the forest stretching out below him like a rustling emerald sea, vast and tall. If he squinted, he could even make out the village a few miles away, with little people-shaped specks milling about and going about their daily business. 

It took him about half an hour before he realized his heart wasn't in the task of reading; he'd been stuck on the same page for almost the whole time, and nothing was going into his head. He heaved a sigh and placed the book beside him, instead steepling his fingers beneath his chin and gazing out at the forest. 

He'd tried to talk some semblance of sense into Trevor's head the previous night, but he'd been having none of it. He was stubborn, more than Adrian had let on, and he'd nearly forgotten how prickly he could be to people he didn't know. For somehow over the course of just a few days, he'd gotten comfortable enough with Adrian to consider him an ally, perhaps even a friend. 

The thought made a bit of warmth curl up in his chest, the relief and happiness that came with being trusted. He knew it was silly, and that he shouldn't think of Trevor Belmont as anything but a partner, and a temporary one at that. It didn't matter that he always knew exactly what to say to get Adrian to smile, or that his laugh, however rare, was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. 

He struck his forehead to the glass of the window, none too gently, squeezing his eyes shut. _I need to get these thoughts out of my head,_ he told himself, feeling the cold of the glass on his skin and not caring. _Nothing good ever comes out of thoughts like these._

"Adrian? Adrian, is that you?"

He cracked an eye open but didn't move as he heard footsteps approach, recognizing his mother's heartbeat, the syncopated rhythm of her breathing that had become as familiar to him as his own, if not more so. He could smell water lilies, which was one scent of hers that always stood out more than any other, invariably calming his frayed nerves.

He said nothing as he heard her approach, and he let his eye fall shut again as he felt the mattress beside him dip slightly. Something soft brushed his hair out of his eyes, tenderly. "What are you doing here all alone?" she asked. 

He turned his face further into the glass like a petulant child, not wanting to say anything. She didn't press, but her fingers continued their careful path through his hair. He'd gotten her pale golden curls, thick and soft. 

"You look like you haven't been sleeping lately," she went on after a few minutes. "Your eyes are all red, and you hardly eat." After a slight pause, she said, "Are you all right, Adrian?"

"Nothing's wrong, mother." It wasn't what she'd asked, but he didn't care. "I'm fine."

"If you say so." She looped her arms around his waist and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, and despite his unwillingness to talk, he leaned into her embrace, feeling what tension had gathered in his shoulders seep away. His mother was there, and close, and maybe things would turn out all right. 

"Mother, I've met someone," he blurted. 

"Oh?" He felt her smile against his shoulder, her fingers playfully digging into his sides. He squirmed, giggling and trying to evade her tickling fingers. "Who is it? Do we know them?"

"No." He didn't know why he was lying—perhaps it was because they knew Trevor Belmont, the heir to a great, noble house that was peaceful and quiet and prim. But the Trevor he knew was just a boy like he was, desperate to get away from the choking vines of what was expected of him—not for what he as a person could give, but of what his name could give. 

"Well?" Her arms gave him a gentle squeeze, and he shrugged, sure he was blushing. "Is it a boy or a girl?" She raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. 

He hesitated, then bit his lip, then hesitated some more. "A boy," he said finally. 

"Oh, I knew it!"

" _Mother_."

She only smiled at him, and he could see the familiar curve of her full lower lip and the faint dimple in her left cheek. "Don't worry, darling, I won't say a word." She rested her cheek on his shoulder. "So, what's he like? Can we meet him?"

"Mother, I hardly even know him—it's only been a few days."

"Is that where you go every day when you claim you're training in the forest?" She raised a teasing eyebrow at him and he flushed hotly. "No." 

"So you really do train in the forest every day until after noon?" She tilted her head, her glass-blue eyes shimmering unreadably. He shrugged, hoping he was an adequate liar. He probably wasn't, but he tried his best, deflecting the answer with another question. "Is that so hard to believe?"

She smiled at him. "You tell me." Her face was open, guileless. "So, are you going to tell me about this mystery boy, or am I going to have to find out myself?"

He felt his cheeks flush. "I don't know, he's... rude, I suppose. And hostile. And foul-mouthed. And he's prickly, and self-destructive, and rather world-weary, but..."

His mother raised an eyebrow. "He sounds charming."

He laughed. "Well, he can be, when he wants to, I suppose." He thought of the way his face had lit up when he'd seen the children, the easiness with which he'd laughed with the boy and ruffled his hair and told him it was all right to want to help people. And the previous night, when he'd carried him through the forest, delirious and crying out for his family, bleeding all over Adrian's clothes with tears streaking down his face. 

It had been a rare moment of vulnerability, and he hadn't mentioned it, hadn't asked after the way he'd called out for his sisters, for _Elara and Chelsea and Roxanne and Vayenne and Esther and Marianne_. He'd woken again when Adrian had taken him back to his room and set him down in the bathtub to tend to his wounds, and his eyes had been open wide but unseeing, bloodshot and terrified. He'd been shivering violently, his teeth chattering, but not from cold. 

Thankfully he passed out again once Adrian started on the stitches, and he hadn't woken again, even as Adrian hauled him back to bed and tucked the covers around his prone form. He'd debated with himself furiously whether to strip him or not, and had eventually decided against it, since he didn't seem to appear to be hurt anywhere else. And he had to admit the prospect of it—even for strictly medical purposes—had made him blush and hesitate. 

He'd sat by him on the bed for nearly two hours afterward, simply watching him sleep. He hadn't rested peacefully—he'd been tossing and turning almost the whole while, his cheeks flushed hectically and his hands clenching on the sheets nearly hard enough to rip them. Eventually he quieted down, and Adrian had, albeit hesitantly, finally left and gone home. 

"Well, when you're ready to pop the question, just let me know so I can give you my blessing," said his mother, standing. He groaned as she leaned down to peck his cheek again, laughing. "I've made lunch," she said as she moved off towards the counter, plucking the glass vial off the burner. "It's downstairs if you want it."

"I'll take it." He slid off the windowsill, sliding the book back onto the shelf and nodding to his mother before leaving the lab, silently shutting the door behind him as he left.

* * *

Adrian had lied. 

He didn't go downstairs for lunch, nor did he even go near the kitchen, where he could smell freshly baked bread and cheese. Instead, he slipped out the back door again, quickly striding away from the castle and into the cover of the forest. Looking back to make sure that nobody had seen him leave, he hurried towards the village, shifting into his wolf form so as to move more quickly. 

He stayed as close to the edge of the woods as possible, though the smell of magic was still strong and lingered almost everywhere. He had wondered if it had been so strong the previous night because unbeknownst to him there had been a powerful user of magic just a few paces away, but her scent had been different—more like energy than darkness, more like vitality than consuming hunger.

As the village came into view, he slowed, then shifted just as the shadows gave way to light, emerging from the woods in his human form. He dusted off his coat as he walked, head down against the harsh sunlight beating down on him and the dry wind that lifted his hair lazily in its warm fingers. He walked quickly, even though there was no one in sight, eyes darting around almost nervously. 

He didn't know why he came back here; there was nothing for him to do, unless one counted going about finding out about the boy who had been killed the previous night, asking around and seeing if there was still the slightest chance that there might be something linking the people who had been maimed so far. 

There was also the question of the Speaker girl they'd run into in the woods, the way she had so easily swept a hand through the air and allowed ice and fire to explode from nothingness, the way she had tilted her chin up and stood straighter when he'd asked her why she was alone. Almost immediately, she had reminded him of his mother. 

He made his way into the village, eyes roving left and right, and he felt like he was looking for something, but he didn't know what—or who—he was looking for. Eventually he found himself in the center of the village in the square, where he could hear faint strains of the choir singing in the church and the bells ringing high and clear, their deep, rich sound spilling through the air. 

He simply stood there awhile, fascinated by the ordinariness of the life he could see around him—men with wheat stalks loosely dangling from their lips laughing together while whittling under a tent, women with backs bent from work sweeping the cobblestone square, children hawking vegetables and meat and flowers fanning their flushed, sweating little faces with flaps of cloth. It was startlingly human, tangible and very real when compared to the way he lived, and had always lived. 

He found himself aching, wanting to be a part of it all, wanting to feel the same connection with his human side as he felt with his vampire side. He wanted the simplicity of being human, the pains and hardships and the graceless reality of it. He wanted to be a small little speck among millions, just to be counted with everyone around him and to be a part of the land. He'd never wanted to be special, or different, or apart from the masses. All he'd ever wanted was to belong. 

He moved around the square, passing the church as he did. He gazed up at the turrets, a single cross mounted on the topmost one. He lingered there only a moment before moving on, milling among the people going about their daily business. Noticing the way the children's eyes lit up when someone approached, then the way they slumped back when the person passed their little stand, he headed towards it. 

Moving towards the counter, he stopped long enough to buy a few lilies, their delicate crepe petals a soft, creamy white. It was purple-throated, a deep, vibrant purple that reminded him of the sky as it tipped into evening and sprang out in bizarre shades of blue and pink. He smiled at the blushing little girls as he bought them, and was just moving away when a little voice behind him chirped, "I could put them in your hair for you!"

He turned, and saw one of the little girls smiling up at him shyly, knotting her hands together. She scuffed her shoe against the ground, blinking at him with wide brown eyes. 

"My... hair?" he asked, frowning down at her. 

She nodded happily, gesturing. "It's so long and pretty! I could braid it for you, with the flowers."

He laughed softly, knowing he'd probably look ridiculous, but obliged her anyway, sitting on the lip of the fountain in the square as she carefully yanked on his hair, standing behind him on the rim to reach with her little hands. For a while—just a small while, but a while nonetheless—he felt like he could be anyone, sitting at a fountain having his hair braided by a little girl he didn't know. People who walked by didn't throw him a second glance, but those who did merely smiled at the sight of them, and for a few blissful minutes he simply cast aside everything that plagued him, and let himself sink into the pulling quicksand of regularity. 

After several minutes of incessant pulling and lots of twisting and uncountable braids, the girl pulled away, beaming at her handiwork. "There!" she said happily. "Now you look like a prince."

He reached up self-consciously, patting his head. The girl had put it in an elaborate updo that somehow ended up in a thick braid down his left shoulder, and it was so convoluted that he couldn't tell how it looked from tactile examination. He imagined from the way their own hair had been shorn close to their heads that they didn't see too much intricate hair braiding in their lives. In any case, he was happy to assist. 

"It's lovely," he said, taking her hand and pressing a quick kiss to her knuckles. She giggled, smothering her blushes in her other hand as he did. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she blushed, then scampered off back to her tent. Scooping up the remaining flowers that hadn't been carefully inserted into his hair, he walked around the square one last time before moving into the side streets, into the welcoming shade of the tall houses on either side. 

The streets there were deserted, not a single person walking about despite the hour. He found his mind straying back to the body that had been found the previous day, the way it had been so close to the last body, the way this one seemed almost like a taunt. It made him uneasy, as if he should be putting his guard up at all and every hour of the day. 

"It's Adrian, isn't it?"

He spun around, surprised and a little startled, but not startled enough to jump—the misadventure he'd had with Trevor's whip the first time they had met had made him extra careful not to let his guard down no matter how sudden a situation was.

The Speaker girl they'd met yesterday— _Sypha,_ he remembered—was standing in the shadows that had gathered between two houses, arms crossed over her chest. As he turned she moved into the light, which picked out the russet and golden strands in her cloud of strawberry-blond curls and made them shimmer. 

"It is," he said as she approached. "But you didn't have to ask me that."

When she raised a quizzical eyebrow, he raised one as well, feeling his lips tilt upwards. "Your memories are by far about three times as efficient as anyone else's," he said. "I'm sure if I asked you, you'd be able to relay our entire conversation from last night without any trouble at all. I imagine my name wouldn't be that big of an issue."

She smiled, and he realized suddenly that it had been her who had been looking for in the crowd as he'd walked into the village. Somehow, without knowing, he'd found her, but he hadn't even realized then that it had been her who he'd been looking for. 

"It's still polite to seem pleasantly stupid," she replied, finally drawing up to him. She was so tiny that her eyes were level with his collarbone, and bundled up in her shapeless Speaker robes, she only seemed tinier. "It would have been odd—and rude as well—to simply shout your name as you walked down the street."

"I suppose, though I don't think I'd mind that."

She huffed out a laugh, then craned her neck to look up at him. "Lovely hairdo," she said, and he couldn't tell whether she was being sarcastic or not, but his fingers reached up defensively all the same, latching around the stem of a heavy blossom. "I—the village girls did it for me," he said, hastily pulling the flower from his hair. "They asked, and, well—I couldn't exactly deny them, could I?"

"Don't take it out, it looks adorable," she protested, plucking the lily from his limp fingers and standing on her tiptoes to carefully place the flower back into his hair. Her fingers were small and soft and meticulous, gently tucking the bloom among the numerous twists and braids the girl had woven into his hair. She bit her lip in concentration as she did, and he could see the dents it made in the soft skin.

"You look like a fairy," she laughed once she pulled away, and he immediately felt the loss of her presence and the feeling of her hands in his hair, then immediately berated himself for it. He had enough to think about besides pretty girls who laughed like bells ringing and whose fingers in his hair felt like soft feathers. 

"A fairy?" He arched a brow. 

She blushed, and it was very clear against her pale skin. "See for yourself." Casting a look around to make sure nobody was in the street, she flexed her fingers, and the air around her shimmered and bent, two glimmering sheets of ice unfolding from nothingness with a soft _pop_. Positioning one behind him and the other in front of him with two fingers, she stepped back, her magic ending. 

"There," she said. "Look."

He looked—and was met with, oddly enough, the sight of the back of his own head, displayed rather clearly on the translucent ice sheet, angled such that one caught the reflection of the other. He could now see the neat, intricate braid that the little girl had plaited into his hair, that began at the top of his brow and wrapped neatly and evenly around his head, ending in a simple braid that dropped off his shoulder. The lily sat behind his ear, covering its slight point that marked him out as half-vampire. 

"See?" Sypha smiled at him before sweeping a hand up, and the sheets of ice vanished back to wherever she'd pulled them from, the air bending and snapping to accommodate the magic. "It looks good," she said unexpectedly. "At least you're secure enough in your masculinity to be comfortable with a flower braided in your hair. Most men I know would be abhorrent to the idea."

He laughed, and just like that, he was at ease. "I'll take that as a compliment."

She inclined her head. "It was meant as one." Then her gaze turned questioning, quietly inquiring. "So what are you doing here at this time of day? Don't you only come here at night?" Her accent lent an exotic lilt to her voice, her tone sweeping upwards at the end of the question. It was strangely pleasing, as if he could listen to her speak all day and not get tired of the way she shaped her words. 

He shook his head, moving to walk down the street, putting the remaining flowers and his hands in his pockets. "Don't confuse me with Trevor. He's the one who comes by night, and only by night."

"So you're their sun and he's their moon," she deduced, falling into step beside him. "That seems fitting." Then she paused. "Is there any particular reason for your schedules?"

He shrugged. "It's considerably easier for me to escape my father's castle than it is for him to escape the Belmont manor," he said. "I have the luxury of living alone with my parents rather than with six sisters and about six hundred servants. Not to mention butlers. And stablemen. Gardeners. Guards. You name it."

She sent him a sideways glance. "Waiters?"

"How could I forget waiters?" he laughed, and a moment later she joined him. She had a softer but no less buoyant laugh, one that seemed to go right through his chest and make his heart stutter. _Focus, Adrian,_ he thought. 

"So you both need to escape to come here," she said once they'd both sobered. "That seems sad."

He frowned. "How so?"

She shrugged and looked away. "Well, it's clear that both of you want to be here. You want to help the people. You come here of your own free will and your choice. The fact that you need to hide that from your family seems like you're somehow ashamed of what you want, isn't it?"

He hesitated, wondering if this girl was much, much cleverer than he or she had let on. "I don't know," he said finally. "I... my father wants me to take after him, to do what he does and lead the rest of the vampires of the world, be their battle general. It's all he's ever wanted for me, or from me."

"But what do _you_ want?" Her voice was softer than soft. 

He looked away, for some reason unable to meet her eyes. "All I've wanted is to do what my mother does," he said. "I want to learn enough to help people. I want to be the one they turn to for help, and I want to make sure I know enough to be that person for them." He sighed. "I just want to help them."

"So you tell your father you'll do what he asks of you, and then so as not to let him down you sneak away here every day and do what you want to do because you know it would disappoint him," she finished thoughtfully, and though her tone was matter-of-fact and kind, she might as well have punched him in the stomach. He blinked, his lips parting but no words coming out. 

"It's a very noble thing to do," she said. "But what's the point, if you can't be true to yourself doing it?"

"I'm not that brave," he heard himself say as if from a distance. "Not yet, anyway."

She nodded, as if satisfied with his answer. "Well, then when you one day grow brave enough, come and tell me what happens."

He found his lips tilting up into a smile that was tremulous but genuine. "I'll be sure to do just that."

"I suppose Belmont has his reasons as well," she sighed. "Though I feel his may be more along the lines of saving his hide from the wrath of the church and his family should he be exposed."

He snorted. "Something like that."

"How on earth did you end up with him?" She sounded partly amused and partly irritated. "He's intolerable, and you're..."

"Slightly less intolerable," he finished, and she laughed again. It was easier this time, as if she too had grown more comfortable around his presence. He tried to ignore the little burst of happiness that came with it. Dear God—first with Trevor, and now with Sypha. He was incorrigible. 

"Well, yes," she said. "But only slightly."

"Lucky me."

He saw her look away, but not before he saw a grin spread across her face, and he saw her bite her lip to keep from laughing. "It's a long story," he said in answer to her earlier question, shrugging. "We met mainly by chance, and then I saw him rather unexpectedly at a dinner once..."

"A _dinner_?" She stared at him as if he had just dropped from the moon. He nodded offhandedly. "He'd lied about his family name and I had lied about mine. So it was more than a little surprising for me to discover that he was a Belmont, and I imagine he was as surprised to find out about my name as well. After that, well..." He thought back to their duel, Trevor's injury, then seeing him again the same night and wondering if he could possibly care any less about his own life. 

"Well, after that I don't think it'd be possible to ignore him if I tried," he finished. "It's partly an obligation; he's so reckless. Half the time it's like I'm keeping him from harming himself more than I'm keeping other things from harming us."

"Odd, that he has to rely on the son of Dracula to keep him, a vampire hunter, safe," she said distantly, blinking wide turquoise-blue eyes at him. He couldn't quite decide whether they were the color of the sea or the sky.

"You have no idea." They turned the corner, and the street they were walking down opened into another, wider one. This one, however, was slightly more populated, with a few people moving about. "So how long have you known about the murders?"

"The day we arrived," she said. "So yesterday morning. I'm sure you've already done this, but I went around this morning asking for information in case there was something connecting the victims—"

"Then you'll know that there isn't anything," he finished, nodding. "I was thinking of making one last effort on that front and speaking to the family of the boy killed last night, in case there was something I missed—"

"I already asked," she said, nodding. "There was nothing. I scoured every last tidbit of information. Nothing connects them except the fact that they all lived here, they're all men between seventeen and twenty-three, and they've all gone missing a day before their bodies are found."

"What could possibly be doing it?" He passed a hand across his face, frustrated. "Nothing matches the attacks, nothing I've read about in all and every language of the land has ever ripped the hearts from young men."

She turned large eyes up to him, and there was an open curiosity on her face. "You read a lot?" she asked, and it was seemingly innocent and innocuous, but he sensed that his answer would determine her opinion of him for the rest of the time they would know each other. 

As it was, he went for honesty. "I love reading," he said. "There's a massive library in my father's castle, the largest collection of books in Wallachia, or so they say. I grew up in an environment that promoted books and the retaining of knowledge voraciously, so I've done my fair share of reading."

Her eyes lit up, and he knew he'd passed some invisible test, one that he hadn't been allowed to prepare for, or even seen coming, for that matter. Her lips curved up into the smallest of soft smiles that seemed partly to herself, and when she looked back at the road in front of her, her cheeks were slightly pink. 

They passed a gaggle of young men all laughing loudly and whistling at the women who walked by—ugh, in the middle of the day as well, people here had no shame, thought Adrian—and one of them broke away from their group, leering at Sypha as they passed, his gaze clinging to her languidly, almost possessively, with a gleam in his eye that made Adrian want to tear him apart limb from limb. 

"Hey, little bird," he called, eyes traveling slowly, lazily over her body, where the wind made her robes cling to her hips and chest. "Why don't you ditch the blond and show us what you're hiding under the robe?" He winked lecherously, jeering lewdly. "I bet I could show you a better time than he is, and I'll even pay you extra if you get on your knees for me."

Adrian's hands balled into fists, and he had half a mind to rip the man open with his bare hands then and there. He hadn't even realized his nails had sharpened into deadly claws and he'd been moving forward to do exactly that when Sypha grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "Ignore it," she said stiffly, forcing him to come to a halt. "It's all right."

"It's _not_ all right." He was surprised at the growl in his own voice, the anger he could hear, as if it were a stranger speaking and not himself. "Did you hear what that bastard said—"

"Loud and clear." She sounded tired, and he felt his anger ebb, a sort of desperate sympathy replacing it, and a sort of overwhelming sense of unfairness came with it. He could only imagine how many times she'd heard the same thing before, from a thousand different mouths. How she'd probably ignored it every time despite the anger and shame and fear she felt.

"Sypha—"

"Don't." She sent him a small, forced smile, gently squeezing his arm. "Forget it happened, Adrian. Let's speak of something else."

"But—"

"Please." A brief flash of pain crossed her face. "I'm used to it, Adrian. Now, you were saying something about the bodies, that there are no connections?"

"I... yes, there's nothing," he said, reluctantly dropping the subject. "There's some other reason that these murders are happening. I've looked in my father's library multiple times, but I've found nothing." 

"Hmm." She looked deep in thought, and he deliberately steered them away from the road, moving towards one of the side streets again. He didn't think he'd be able to handle another incident like what had just happened—he might really murder someone this time. Just the thought of the way that man had looked at Sypha made his skin crawl and his insides burn with anger. 

Who was he, to look at her like that? Who was anyone to look at her like that? The only way she should have been looked at by a man—or anyone, really—was with awe at what she could do, at how much she knew and how strong she was. Even Adrian didn't deserve to look at her with any less respect than that. If it was one thing his parents had taught him, it was the acceptance that came with having a wife who was fiercely intelligent and bold, and being just as intelligent and bold as she was without feeling compromised or overshadowed. To him, that was love—acceptance and acknowledgment, and coexistence. 

"Adrian, are you even listening to me?"

He jerked out of his internal tirade, pulled back into the present. They had stopped in the middle of the road, and Sypha was looking up at him with something resembling a mix of concern and annoyance, her hand held up to shade her eyes from the sun slanting down onto them. 

He gave a guilty start. "I'm sorry, I—I just got a bit distracted, that's all."

She seemed to realize what he had been thinking, raising a coppery brow but saying nothing. They resumed walking, and after a while she said, "There's a library here. It's small, and I'm not sure there's much in there, but we can go see if there's anything useful in there someday."

"There's a library here?" He was more than a little surprised; he'd been coming here for months now, and he still hadn't known that. "I didn't even know."

"They don't flaunt it, that's for sure." She kicked a stray pebble from her path, sending it skittering away into the shadows. "But I've seen it. I haven't gone inside though, and I'm not sure how the people would take to a woman going into a library, but I was thinking of going anyway."

"I'd come now," he said apologetically, glancing up at the sky. "But my mother is probably wondering where I've run off to, and it's been a while." He sighed, fiddling with the end of his braid. "I'll come here tomorrow," he said. "I'll come an hour and a half before noon, and we'll go together."

She seemed to be trying to hide the way her face lit up at that, and half-succeeded. "That sounds fine," she said. "I mean, I could go alone, but..."

"No," he said firmly, waving away her protests. "No, I insist you wait until I'm there before going inside."

She crossed her arms, and again—that stubborn set to her jaw, the rebellious tilt to her chin. She was unlike any Speaker he'd ever met. "I'll be fine, you know. I'm not defenseless."

"Maybe not," he agreed, "but you can't use magic against these people, they'll brand you as a witch and either banish your people or burn you at the stake, and they even see you reading and researching, they'll do the same. So you will wait for me. Promise me you'll wait for me."

"Fine," she huffed at last, blowing an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. "I'll wait for you."

He raised an eyebrow. 

"I promise," she muttered. 

"Good." He straightened his coat, satisfied. "I'll see you tomorrow before noon, then."

She nodded, pushing her hair off her forehead. "You're not coming here tonight?"

He hesitated, thinking of how his father would be waiting at home, and knowing that he'd spent too much time away from home already. He winced at the thought of the excuses he'd have to give, the lies he'd have to tell and the way he'd have to force his heart rate down to make those lies passable. "I don't think I can come here tonight," he sighed. 

She made a face, possibly at the prospect of only having Trevor for company. "Well, then I'll just have to scout," she said, shrugging. "And hope I don't see any Belmonts on the way."

He laughed, hoping that wouldn't happen—they were too different, Trevor and Sypha, yet far too alike in their own ways. He shuddered to think of the day they'd ever have to meet again, or, God forbid, work together. He could imagine the way their personalities would chafe against each other, each one trying to up the other. 

"Tomorrow before noon, then." Sypha nodded to him, and she seemed to be about to say something else, her lips parting and her feet moving a step forward, her hand half-reaching out towards him—and then she bit her lip, taking a step back as her fingers curled in on themselves, her hand falling away as she ducked her head. 

She turned and walked away from him, turning the corner and disappearing from sight, leaving nothing behind but the wind.

* * *

He let himself into the castle quietly—as quietly as he could, which was practically soundlessly. He slid the flower from his hair, twirling the stem in his fingers before gathering the rest from his pocket and filling a tall glass with water, sliding the blossoms into it. Placing the glass on the kitchen counter by the window, he moved out of the room.

Softly closing the kitchen door behind him, he slunk down the hall, quietly letting himself out into the entrance hall and sliding along the wall so as not to be seen. His tread was soundless on the carpeted floor, his gait cautious. 

But not cautious nor soundless enough, it seemed.

"Adrian," called his father's voice, and he winced, stopping in his tracks. He looked up, and a second later he materialized from thin air, standing in front of Adrian—impossibly tall and imposing and practically radiating displeasure. "Where have you been?"

"I was just walking," he said, keeping his heartbeat slow and steady. Even the slightest of hitches wouldn't go unnoticed. "In the forest—just to get some air."

"And you didn't think to tell either of us where you'd gone?" He arched a dark brow, and Adrian wilted. "I—"

"There has to be some sense of duty, Adrian," Dracula sighed, and Adrian wilted even further. "You must stop to think of the future, especially now. You're not a child anymore, I needn't keep telling you this."

"I know," was all he said, though inside his mind was screaming at him to just _say it_ , just _tell him that you've never wanted that and it's not the path you want to travel on for all of eternity._ He thought of Sypha, her quiet intelligence and the way she'd told him that sometimes it wasn't a bad thing to fight for what you wanted. 

_I'm not that brave,_ he'd told her. 

And, God in heaven, he wasn't. Not by half. 

"I know," he said again. "I'll—I'll try my best." 

"I know you'll give nothing less than that," his father said, putting a brief hand on his shoulder. "You'll make a fine general, a fine leader after my time is done. I'm sure of it." His eyes softened, and Adrian felt the all-too-familiar bite of guilt tighten like a noose around his neck. One day, if he wasn't careful, he'd lose his footing and hang. 

He watched his father go, still clutching the wall for support. The moment he was out of sight, he slid down, ending up on the floor with his knees drawn up, his head falling back against the wall behind him. 

He didn't want to disappoint his father. He knew that all he wanted for Adrian was this, and Adrian had been so afraid of letting him down that he had never said a word in edgewise. He'd never even told his mother, though the way her eyes would crinkle in concern whenever the topic came up suggested that she'd guessed at least a part of it. 

He'd been unsure earlier, of whether he wanted what his father wanted for him or not—perhaps he'd grow out of it, and he was too young to know exactly what he wanted. Maybe in a few years, he'd understand what it really meant, and then there wouldn't be any more regret, and the guilt would finally dissipate. 

But then he'd met Trevor in the woods that night. 

And then everything had flipped over. If anything, he'd convinced Adrian that he wasn't going to be happy leading all the vampire generals around the world and heading the War Council. He had, though unknowingly, showed Adrian that it was out there that he felt happy, at ease, complete. 

He wanted to be both sides of who he was, not just one. And he had to admit he thought the worldly vampire generals wouldn't be thrilled to be headed by a dhampir fledgling, either. He was at least two hundred years younger than the youngest general. 

His deep-set feeling of unease had only increased that morning, when he'd spoken to Sypha. He had the vaguest sense that she could see right through him as if he were made of glass. 

He stood, feeling a sort of helpless regret. Moving slowly towards his room, he closed the door behind him and collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the painted stars and constellations on the ceiling, feeling everything mix inside him, all the emotion that he'd been trying to hold at bay. He was angry, at himself for not saying anything, he was bitter that no matter what he did, he wasn't ever enough. He was afraid that he'd never find what was killing those people, and they'd keep dying and it would partly be his fault. 

And he didn't know what he felt when he thought about Trevor, and he didn't know what he felt when he thought about Sypha. They were both so different, but in their own odd, individual ways, when he was with them, he was happy. He could be who he wanted to, and they didn't seem to mind. 

Unable to think with everything roiling inside his mind, he rolled out of bed, snatching his sketchbook from where he usually stashed it under his pillow. Grabbing up a length of charcoal, he flipped the book open to a blank page, set the tip of the charcoal to it, and started to draw. 

He didn't even look at what he was drawing, his fingers moving of their own accord, and he let all the anger and bitterness and regret of the past few days spill out of him like poison through his strokes. The pencil slashed across the thick paper, and the grisly sight of the last mangled body bloomed across the sheet, with those nail-scratch marks all over his chest and his eyes wide open and unseeing in death. 

Below it he drew Trevor, naked and with the coils of his whip wrapped around his body, caging him. Its edges cut into his skin, drawing blood, which welled around the lacerations it painted into his skin. The Belmont crest was clearly visible on the leather, digging into the flesh directly over his heart. His face was turned down and away from the viewer, and his hands were tied behind his back. 

Then came Sypha, her robes billowing around her, her eyes glowing with magic and the lost fire of ages, her hair lifted in a hypnotic, serpentine crown around her head. She looked beautiful but also terrible, like an avenging goddess, entirely without compassion or mercy. Her hands were wreathed in light, and her face was empty and devoid of emotion. 

The end of the charcoal pencil snapped with an explosive crack, and his limp fingers fell to his sides, trembling from the force with which he'd gripped the pencil and with which he'd drawn. The images were bold and clear, defined lines and sharp edges and dramatic angles. He gazed down at them, feeling drained and tired. 

He felt a sort of half-panic rise in his throat, and he slammed the sketchbook shut, stuffing it under his pillow again. There was no way he could let anyone see those—partly because he couldn't let his parents know about where he was really going, and partly because he himself didn't know what he'd drawn. 

He put his head in his hands, breathing. He stayed like that for a long time, and eventually his eyes closed and he fell asleep, his fingers uncurling as he gradually sank into unconsciousness. The broken pencil in his hand rolled free from his fingers and fell onto the floor, its end still jagged and cracked open directly down the middle. But he didn't hear it fall, and he didn't open his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My working title for this chapter was 'Adrian is bi and he's so lost'.  
> And the dialogue between Lisa and Adrian in the beginning is an actual conversation I had with my mother the other day, which ended in a tickle war, in which I conceded defeat after a valiant effort. 
> 
> Also, personal Headcanon: Adrian can whip up some mean sketches. I mean, did y'all see how he literally poked around with a stick on the sand for a few seconds and then boom, Drac and Lisa rendered perfectly??? I've always loved the idea of him drawing to let off some steam.


	6. Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Eyes:** _Protection, clairvoyance, truth and vigilance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long!! My tests got over this week, and now I'm free, happily so. Hope everyone enjoys this chapter, and feedback is appreciated. :)

**_Sypha_ **

The bed was hard under her hips and back, the lumpy mattress digging into her skin. She rolled over onto her back, but there was little relief in doing so—now the hard surface was pressing painfully to her hipbones. 

She sighed, shifting to get more comfortable. Once her back no longer felt as if she were lying on a bed made of boulders, she let her head fall back onto the equally rock-hard pillows, trying not to breathe too deeply—everything around her reeked. 

The inn that they'd rented rooms in wasn't the best one, but it was the cheapest. A few of the Speakers were in the caravan, and while that might have been more comfortable, it was less safe, and so she had been carted off here, to the disgusting, moldy inn where the bed creaked, the ceiling dripped and the floor looked to be burned through at one place and hastily patched up again. 

She'd fumed inside, but had said nothing; the looks on everyone's faces were reminiscent of the way Adrian had frowned at her as he'd made her promise to wait for him before going to the library. She could still see the faint curve of his lower lip in her mind, the little line that had appeared between his eyebrows. 

She had found herself fascinated by his eyes, the way they seemed tawny in the shadows, a sort of gold that wasn't quite gold, darker mysterious and hazed through with shadows. But when he'd walked into the light, they transformed into a dazzling, lustrous amber, like sunlight slanting through honey, or like molten gold poured over diamonds. 

She had been stunned by his beauty for the first few minutes, the sheer unearthliness of his face and the allure that his vampire blood lent him. It had been a job just to tear her eyes off him, and especially with that ridiculously complimenting braid in his hair and the stupidly adorable lily behind his ear. She had eventually gotten used to it, the way one got used to looking in to a particularly bright light—as much as one could get used to such a thing. 

But what had struck her more than his beauty had been his quiet intellect, the way he spoke—he knew more than he let on, maybe even more than she did, but he didn't seem haughty or snobbish, merely happy to share what he knew and eager to learn more. She certainly liked him better than the Belmont—but then again, she'd like anyone better than him. 

Being a Speaker, she didn't interact with many people outside her tribe. It was a given—they were there to preach to the people, but they avoided interaction as much as they possibly could. Sypha had never liked that rule, wanting to meet people, talk to them, tell them that the world was changing and see things from their eyes. But all she'd gotten were frowns from her elders and a cruel indifference from those she tried to talk to. 

But meeting Adrian had been like a splash of cool water on her face. To her utter dismay, she'd found that she'd _liked_ him, and she had barely talked to him for a few hours. He was soft and kind, and he had a laugh that reminded her of a fountain of wine—sparkling and potent and rich. And she could get drunk on the sound of it, happily drunk, and she wouldn't care. 

She recoiled from the thoughts, swinging her legs out of bed and standing. The room was dark, almost too dark to see, but she felt her way through to the door, then unlatched it as quietly as she could. If she couldn't sleep and her mind insisted on acting like a besotted teenager's, then she'd at least make herself useful. 

She slipped out the door and into the corridor, pulling up her hood as she did. She had brushed off the incident that had happened earlier that day with Adrian, but she'd felt the words like barbed stings on her body. She had come to terms with the hardships of being a woman, but that didn't mean she had to like it. 

She left the inn, moving along the deserted streets. There was a cold wind blowing, one that seeped through her robes and made goosebumps break out on her skin. She drew her robe tighter around herself, keeping her head down whenever she passed someone in the street. It was late—well past midnight, perhaps in the first or second hour of the morning. As it was, the darkness was thickest, the stars vanishing into the black of the sky and the moon a blinding slice of silver. 

She veered away from the village, moving towards the forest. She knew that it might have been dangerous, but all she could think of was the stubborn set to Adrian's jaw, the worry that she was so tired of hearing painting itself clearly in his words. _"You can't use magic against these people, they'll brand you as a witch and either banish your people or burn you at the stake, and they even see you reading and researching, they'll do the same. So you will wait for me. Promise me you'll wait for me."_

She'd hoped that he of all people would see her as something other than a flimsy little girl he had to protect—she knew he saw her ability to protect herself, but still. It had been there, the little voice in her head saying, _See? He thinks you can handle yourself, he doesn't think you need help, he thinks you're strong enough._

And then those boys had leered at her. 

He'd looked murderous—and it had struck her then how naive he was, how little he knew about the world. He'd lived a sheltered life with his parents, protected from the small stings and barbs that ordinary life gave you and you got used to, your skin thickening because of it. He was softer, more stunned by things that she was used to, almost blissfully ignorant of the hardships of the world and the people living in it. 

She couldn't deny she'd felt a tiny spark of happiness that he cared so much, that something as small as a few men in the street jeering could elicit such anger from him, but she'd had to hold him back before he killed them—she was sure she was the only one who'd seen his nails sharpen into long, lethal claws, but she had to be thorough. 

She ducked into the cover of the trees, holding out her palm and willing a flame to crackle to life on her skin. Moving along the path she had taken the last time she had come into the woods—now ingrained into her memory flawlessly—she navigated through the undergrowth expertly, not pausing as she traversed through the bushes. 

Within no time at all she emerged at the river, its rapids crashing through its course. She managed to cross it in a single leap, but she landed slightly unsteadily on the other side, her robes tangling around her legs. Straightening, she moved further into the trees again, her whole body super-sensitized, waiting for the faint pull in her blood that she had felt the last time. She knew there was a chance that she wouldn't feel it, but she had to hope. 

She moved deeper into the trees, her eyes nearly closed, her magic practically bubbling underneath her skin. She willed it to rise but not break through her, fizzing just beneath her skin, in her blood. She took a single step closer—and then it rammed into her, the feeling and sense and smell of it. Raw magic, magic that she couldn't yet fully comprehend. Her eyes snapped open, her lips parting in a gasp. She could even almost taste it, a heady tang on her tongue. 

She stumbled forward blindly, excitement and fear in equal measure coursing through her. There was something tethered to her, something that was reeling her in like a fish on a hook. She felt its pull, but she didn't know what was on the other end, whether it was a force good or bad. Whatever it was, though, it was _powerful_. She could feel it pulsing in the air, writhing and coiling in on itself in the shadows and beckoning her closer. 

The flame cradled in her fingers was growing slowly with each step she took, as if her magic was unconsciously responding to whatever she had sensed. Her eyes were wide open and she hardly dared to blink as she moved forward, her gaze roving around the forest in front of her almost hungrily. 

Something bright and silver leaped out at her suddenly and her heart thudded unevenly in her chest, a startled gasp escaping her lips—but it was only a ray of moonlight, one that somehow found its way through a small gap in the foliage. It slanted down in a thick silver ray that looked like some mischievous god was pouring quicksilver through the trees, making it drip onto the forest floor. 

As she got closer to it, amazed at how bright it was in the otherwise Stygian darkness, she realized that there was someone else already there, standing directly in the ray of light. She skidded to a halt, breathing hard, all of her senses tingling. She moved closer more slowly, and when she was only a few yards away from the light she stopped short, the flame in her hand going out abruptly. Because she recognized the figure inside the ray of light, much to her dismay, and disappointment. 

It was Trevor Belmont—and he was standing completely still almost as if transfixed, his face tilted up to the light and his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted as if he were waiting for something to descend from the heavens. His hands were loose at his sides, and she could see his leather whip and his short sword hanging from the belt at his hips. His absurdly large cloak was draped loosely around his broad shoulders, hiding the flash of gold on his breast that was the Belmont crest. 

His eyes opened just barely, and the moonlight that drenched him leached them of color, turning them a pale, luminous cyan. He cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, like a wolf that had sensed its prey in the shadows, affording her a glimpse of the sharp sweep of his jawline. She saw his shoulders tense and moved back instinctively, attempting to melt into the shadows. 

He turned his head to the side, his eyes moving across the shadows, passing once over where she was hidden, her hand over her mouth to make sure she wasn't breathing too loudly. She saw them narrow, and his hand drifted towards his whip. "Adrian?" he called, and her brows shot up, her cheeks flushing. "Is that you?"

Deciding it would be a fatal mistake to stay silent, she stepped forward, dropping her hood as she stepped out of the cloak of shadows the trees provided. "No," she said. "It's not Adrian."

He tensed at the sound of her voice, then relaxed when his eyes fell on her, a scowl replacing the slightly dazed look on his face. "Oh, it's you," he muttered, turning away again. "What're you doing out here at this hour?"

"Same as you, I suppose," she said, feeling slightly awkward; the last time she'd seen him they'd shouted at each other, and she hadn't even known him—and she still didn't. And he'd thought she was Adrian, which she decided she didn't want to comment on. Judging by the slight flush across his cheeks, neither did he. 

"There's a lot of magic here," she said instead, trailing a hand along the bark of a tree nearby. "I can sense it. It's so strong."

"You both keep saying that," he said, tilting his head to look up at the sky again. "But there's never anything here. Except for the—" He stopped short, going rigid suddenly, and she felt her heart jolt in her chest, skipping a beat. "What? What happened?"

"Don't move," he said softly, his eyes narrowed to slits and his fingers slowly wrapping around the handle of his whip. "There's something behind you."

Her breath caught in her throat and she stiffened, feeling a sudden pricking on the back of her neck, as if something were watching her. All at once, she felt exposed, as if she had just stepped into a spotlight—completely out in the open. "What is it?" she breathed, and his eyes were focused on whatever was behind her, darting to and fro. "It's her," he said quietly, and she felt confusion draw her brows together. "Who?"

He wet his lips, slowly drawing his whip. It slumped to the ground in heavy black coils, like a limp snake. "Turn around, slowly," he ordered, still in that same soft voice. 

She did, heart hammering in her chest, squinting into she shadows as she backed up until she was right beside him. She shook her head. "I can't see anything," she hissed. "What are you—?"

"She's _right there_ ," he hissed back, gesturing. She followed his gaze and where he was pointing, but she still couldn't see anything. "I don't—"

"Last time, Adrian didn't see her, either," he said softly, as if reasoning with himself. "And every time I look away I forget how she looks—can you sense any magic here, now?"

She nodded, still squinting into the shadows and seeing nothing. "It's just as strong as it was before," she whispered. "But I can't see anything, or anyone—are you sure there's someone there—?"

"Stay here," he commanded, and then without warning, he began to creep forward slowly, his whip held tightly in his fist. Her eyes widened and she wanted to call after him, but she held it back as he moved forward, towards the trees that bracketed the ray of moonlight. He shifted slightly to the left and suddenly they jumped out at her—a pair of brightly glowing eyes, an unearthly but familiar blue that was hotter than fire and colder than ice. Her heart skipped another few beats, but she willed herself to stay rooted to the spot.

Trevor stopped, directly in front of the eyes. They were all she could see of whatever was there, though evidently he could see more; his eyes were roving up and down, his face draining of color and his lips parting, as if he were caught in a trance. He lurched forward, as if he'd suddenly lost balance, almost tripping over the coils of his whip as he did. She moved forward, a hand held out. Her magic responded almost against her will, a spark igniting between her fingers. 

The eyes shifted, looking to her suddenly, and she felt them on her like two pinpricks of ice. She felt her muscles seize up alarmingly, her body moving of its own volition as the fire in her palm grew, turning into a sizable sphere that only swelled larger and larger. Trevor turned fluidly, his eyes widening, and Sypha winced, pain lancing through her skull as the eyes narrowed, and she felt something spear into her mind. 

She cried out, trying to twist away from it, but her body was being controlled, the fire in her palm licking up her arm, singeing her robes and blackening the edges of her sleeves. She fought the force in her mind feebly, trying to fend away the force that was burrowing deeper into her brain. The fire was out of control now, gleefully caressing her throat and running its burning fingers down her chest. Whatever was in her mind was slowly corroding her connection to the magic, and her skin was beginning to burn. 

Trevor was shouting something to her, something that sounded like _what's going on_ or _fight it_ , but his voice was getting fainter as pain lanced through her skull and her body. Almost as if from a great distance she could hear someone screaming, and she wondered idly if it might be her. 

Her fingers shook as she fought to regain control of her body, and the eyes narrowed further, glowing an eerie blue. She felt tears running down her cheeks, but the fire was so hot that they turned to steam halfway down her face, evaporating into the burning air. She felt her skin cracking, and there was nothing except for pain and smoke that choked her and horrible heat—

"Stop it!" Trevor shouted, glaring directly at the eyes that were fixed on Sypha. "Stop!"

The eyes widened, then blinked almost confusedly. Sypha felt the pain in her brain recede, and her fingers shook harder as she grappled with the force in her mind. Trevor pressed the advantage, stepping towards the eyes. "Leave her alone," he said, his voice remarkably steady. "Stop it. Let her go."

The eyes blinked again, and the fire reduced, shrinking into a thin layer of flame that wreathed Sypha's arms. Trevor took another step forward, swallowing. "I said _stop it_ ," he said, his voice nearly a growl. "Enough. _Let her go_. Leave now. You've done enough—go now."

The force in her mind withdrew entirely, so suddenly that Sypha felt all the energy drain from her body, leaving her dizzy and nauseous. She felt the world tilt around her, and she fell to her knees, her stomach roiling and churning. She doubled over, her head aching, and promptly vomited everything she'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours onto the grass, emptying her stomach. She retched and coughed, her body erupting in shivers, her head spinning. 

She gasped for breath as she felt the connection her mind had to her magic solidify slowly, and as soon as it was strong enough she extinguished the fire, and the nighttime air was cool on her burned skin, torturous and soothing all at once. 

Trevor knelt next to her, concern etched into every line of his face. She was still gasping, pain erupting all over her body. God, this was twice in a day she was forced to look weak in front of a ridiculously good-looking man, she thought, and in her agonized state, the thought struck her as absolutely hilarious—partly because she hadn't even let herself think Trevor was ridiculously good-looking until now, and partly because the thought itself was so stupid.

She started to laugh—it started in small, incredulous giggles, then turned into chuckles, which transformed into full-blown laughter that shook her whole body. It sounded a little insane even to her own ears, but it just didn't seem to be stopping, or even slowing. Trevor Belmont, for his part, looked entirely unequipped to handle a terribly wounded girl who was laughing a little madly for what he'd see as no reason at all. 

"I'm—sorry—" she gasped, still giggling. "I just—I can't seem to—" 

"Just breathe, okay?" He looked slightly alarmed. "Are you all right?"

"I'm—do I look all right, Belmont?" She wheezed, still out of breath. He frowned, placing a careful hand on her back to steady her. "Well, no—but what the fuck happened back there?"

"It—it was like whoever was there—" Her laughter trailed off and she hiccuped, swallowing hard, her head spinning. "They were controlling me, they were inside my mind. They took hold of my magic, and..." She shuddered. "I couldn't move or control it." 

She looked up at him, beginning to shiver. "You said it was a she," she said, her voice cracking. "She... listened to you? You told her to stop, and she did."

He looked disturbed. "I... yeah. It was sort of instinct, mostly. I felt like she'd listen to me. I don't know why. I mean—I'm the only one who can see her face. Adrian only saw her eyes."

"So did I." She slumped backwards, closing her eyes. "She has your eyes," she realized suddenly. "They're exactly like yours."

"I—yeah, I noticed that, too." He looked away, clearly uncomfortable. "I noticed it the first time. It's creepy, isn't it?"

"Maybe she's a Belmont." She could feel her consciousness slipping and fought to stay awake. She hardly realized what she had said until she felt Trevor stiffen beside her, his voice sharp when he spoke again. "What?"

She opened her eyes, looking at Trevor through vision blurry with pain. "She could be a Belmont," she repeated. "She has your eyes, after all."

"That could be a total coincidence," he snapped, and she frowned, irked by the harshness in his voice. "Well, I don't think so," she said. "Only you can see her, and she listened to you when you told her to stop, and even when you told her to leave. I think it'd make sense if she somehow was connected to your family."

"What the hell are you suggesting?"

"Nothing!" She struggled to sit up. "It's a possibility, and every possibility has to be explored, that's all I'm saying."

His scowl still hadn't receded. "You think whoever is killing these people," he said slowly, "this... _monster_ that rips people open and takes their hearts right out of their chests... could be from my family—a family famed for being monster _hunters?_ You think that's a possibility?"

Rather than backing down at the edge in his voice she sat up straighter, coughing. "Yes," she said. "It's possible. I don't know what it is, but whatever it is could once have been someone from your family. Maybe something happened to this woman, and she's become whatever she is now. If I were you, I'd read up on your family history." 

She saw his jaw clench. "I don't think that makes sense," he said, eyes narrowing. They really were the same color and shape of the eyes that had taken over her, controlled her, forced her own magic on her. But there was something different about his eyes, something that told her that he was human and whatever had controlled her was not. "It doesn't make sense," he said again. 

"I think it does." She could see that her candidness and even her slight callousness was rubbing him the wrong way. She was too addled with pain to care, however. "We shouldn't rule it out as an option."

He looked properly angry now, and irritation was rolling off him in waves, but she barely felt it; it was like she was seeing everything through a veil—blurred and faint and blunted. It felt like everything would have to be twice as intense for her to feel it. "I still don't think that makes sense," he said stubbornly, and she grit her teeth, finally irritated enough to feel it, like an itch she couldn't scratch. 

"Well, we need to catch this thing," she snapped. "And if whatever it is can control me and burn me with my own magic, then maybe you should put your pride aside for a moment if it means it might save people's lives—isn't that why you're even here?"

He glared at her. "God, you're the most annoying Speaker I've ever met," he snapped back, and then without warning, he slid an arm under her knees, the other slanting across her back as he lifted her easily, standing. She gasped, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck to keep herself from falling as he stood. Then immediately after she kicked back with her heel, and felt it connect with his thigh harmlessly—ugh, he was so unreasonably tall. 

"Put me down!" She struggled despite the pain all over her arms, but his arms didn't loosen around her as he began walking towards the village again. "No way. You're badly injured, and we were just wasting time pointlessly arguing anyway."

"I don't need to be... to be _princess-carried_ by you," she said, cheeks burning as she turned her face involuntarily into his chest to avoid looking into his stupid, smug face. "I can walk fine on my own."

"Sure." He didn't put her down. "And consider it an impersonal favor. You totally owe me for this one."

 _The nerve...!_ "Men," she muttered. "You're all the same."

"You must not know many men then, besides your Speaker buddies," he said nonchalantly, picking his way carefully through the bushes with her added weight and the possibility of something attacking them with his arms full of her. "Do you?"

She felt a vague sense of satisfaction when she said, "No, but there's Adrian. I'm sure he counts, despite being half-vampire."

"Yeah, but you don't _know_ him. You talked, what, one time?"

"No, several, if earlier today is anything to attest to." She grinned to herself as a stunned silence greeted her words. "You met him today?"

"In the village, in the morning. That's why he's not here tonight. He told me he needed to talk to his father, and he'd have to answer to his absence, since it was the middle of the day. It was by chance that I saw him, but..." She raised her head, peering up into Trevor's disgruntled expression and finding herself unable to stop the smile that tugged at her lips. 

"Why so curious, Belmont?" she teased. "Jealous?"

"Piss off." Color bloomed in his cheeks, so bright a crimson that she could see it even in the darkness. "I should just drop you here and leave you to fend for yourself," he muttered, and she stifled a giggle. "I'd be fine, you know."

"Ha. Evidently." The stream had come into view, and Trevor knelt by the bank, carefully setting her down. As she struggled to sit up, he picked up a large leaf that had sifted to the ground from the foliage, dipping it into the water. Sypha shook her sleeves back, fingers fumbling at the skintight black ones she wore below. Her burned fingertips slid on the smooth surface and she cursed under her breath, feeling pinpricks of pain travel through her fingers. 

"Here, let me." Trevor set the leaf down, slowly pinching her sleeves between his fingers and rolling them up her arms, careful not to scrape it too hard against her tender skin. Once they were bunched around her shoulders, he gently took her wrist in his hands and turned her arm over, baring her skin to the cool night air. Sypha braced herself, hesitantly looking down at her arm. 

The skin was raw and red but not blackened, which she took as a good sign, her breathing easing with each lungful she took in. There were blisters along her wrists, but they stopped halfway down her forearm, and her wrists were a bright, angry red, the top layers of her skin entirely eaten away by the flame. It hurt terribly, but she knew that was a good sign, too—if there was no pain at all, then that would have meant her nerves were completely destroyed. 

"Okay." Trevor let out a measured breath. "It's not too bad, but it doesn't look great, either." He glanced up at her. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

She shook her head. "Thankfully you stopped her before she could go past my arms." Then she hesitated. "Will... will it scar?"

He paused for half a moment, then shook his head decidedly. "No," he said. "No, these are second-degree at best. It'll be raw for a good few weeks, but your skin will regenerate good as new in a month or so."

She nodded mutely, and he dipped the leaf back into the water, one of his hands still looped lightly around her wrist. He cupped his fingers around the leaf, forming a hollow depression from its surface, then slowly brought it over her arm, gently pouring the cool river water onto the burns all over her arm. She hissed as the cold came in contact with her skin, trying to tug her hand away. 

He held on firmly, fingers tightening around her wrist, not stopping even as she struggled. She opened her mouth to protest or to yell at him or perhaps both, and then suddenly there was relief, blissful cold relief, and she felt the pain in her arms ebb all at once. She exhaled, blinking at the droplets of water that dripped off her fingers, each one perfect and tear-shaped as it fell. 

He moved on to her other arm, slowly covering every inch of the burns with the cold water, the pain numbed as it splashed onto her skin. She felt the tension that the pain drilled into her shoulders drain away, and she slumped back onto the ground, her arms held numbly in front of her, held up only by Trevor's hands. She could only watch as he carefully tended to her wounds, the aches miraculously receding under the water. 

He repeated the process of pouring the water over her arms twice more, and then he tossed the leaf away, pulling her loose sleeves over her arms again, leaving the sleeves she wore underneath rucked up her arms so as not to disturb the burns. She made a soft sound of protest as the burns began to sting again in the absence of the water, but before she could articulate her protests, he'd scooped her up into his arms again, standing. 

She felt reality tilt around her alarmingly, the trees blurring into streaks of green and black. She gasped, her fingers bunching in the fabric of his shirt for balance as he started back towards the village again, cradling her against him so gently she wondered how the same hands that could so carefully tend to her burns and carry her could still wield a whip with such deadly precision. 

"I can walk," she said, but the weakness in her voice put the lie to the words. 

"No, you can't." 

"What if something attacks us? You'll drop me?"

He barked out a laugh. "We'll think about that if it comes to it. Nothing's going to come near us."

"I'd at least expect you to complain about how..." She stifled a yawn against the back of her hand, trying as hard as she could not to melt into his warmth. "How heavy I am."

He snorted. "There's no danger of that; you're lighter than my whip." He paused. "Although it does help that you're so tiny," he remarked candidly. "Imagine what a nightmare this would be if you were tall."

"I was right about you the first time, you know," she huffed, resting her head against his chest, feeling his heart beating steadily against her cheek. She closed her eyes, the pain dulling her senses and sending her under the cloak of unconsciousness. "You are _rude."_

She felt his laugh rumble through his chest, and her whole body vibrated. "I've been called worse," he said, his voice fading, and she sighed, feeling the pain recede as she gradually lost consciousness. "Oh, I'm just getting started," she heard herself say, and his soft laugh was the last thing she heard before the darkness finally rose up all around her, dropping like the curtains signaling the end of a play.

* * *

"Sypha?"

_She could feel daylight filtering through the windows of her caravan, caressing her arms and bare feet, seeping through her robes. She turned further into the blankets, not wanting to get up. "Five more minutes," she groused, not opening her eyes._

"Sypha, can you hear me?"

_She felt a hand on her cheek, and it felt safe and comforting, and she sighed, relaxing. It would be all right; it was only Papa, and he'd let her sleep a little longer. Mama would want her to wake early, to watch the sun rise. She always said that good things happened to those who waited to wake with the sun and rise with it, that one's whole day would be fruitful._

"She's hurt, we need to wake her and give her medicine." 

_"Sypha," Papa's voice said, so softly. He was always softer, more willing to relent, more willing to distract Mama with a kiss or a line of poetry as Sypha sneaked into the caravan to grab a bag of sweets or a book she wasn't allowed to read. "Sypha, you need to wake up now."_

_"No," she murmured, her fingers rising to where his hand rested on her cheek, lacing his larger fingers with her smaller ones. "No, don't leave, Papa." She felt the weight of loss on her chest, making it hard to breathe. "I miss you so much."_

"Sypha, you have to wake up." It wasn't her father's voice, not this time. She felt her brows furrow as she attempted to separate dream from reality. "Papa?"

"Oh, Sypha." The voice was heavy with sadness. "Open your eyes. Wake now." 

Her father's touch vanished, as did the faint strains of her mother's voice in the background. Her eyes opened, and she blinked away the blurriness in her vision. "What... what's going on?" She slumped back against the covers, feeling guilt and grief and sadness mix in her chest, still able to feel her father's fingers on her cheek and her mother's voice in her ear. Even after all these years. 

Her grandfather's face swam into view, his lips set into a frown. She swallowed, and as she slowly returned to the land of the living she grew more and more aware of the dull pain in her arms, the stinging that reached all the way till her biceps. "What happened?" she asked again, and her mouth felt dry and tasted sour. 

"You went out last night," her grandfather said, and there was no disapproval in his face, only disappointment. It was worse, somehow. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She looked down, the angry red skin of her arms now covered neatly with bandages, and she could feel salve slathered on the insides, soothing her skin. "I... I didn't want to wake you." Her voice sounded small to her own ears. "And I feared you wouldn't let me go."

"So instead you risk your life and return in the arms of a stranger, wounded and unconscious." He shook his head. "Sypha, I thought you were dead."

"I wouldn't," she said, and her lips felt clumsy and heavy, the words tumbling over each other in her haste to get them out. "I wouldn't do that—I'd come back, no matter what."

"And yet." He sighed, folding his hands in his lap. 

"I'll tell you what happened," she said. "I—"

"We already know what happened," cut in a voice, and she turned to see Arn leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and a brow raised. "Your new friend _Trevor Belmont_ told us everything."

She winced. "He's not my friend," was all she said, then frowned after she'd said it; she'd sounded defensive to her own ears. He wasn't her friend, not really. And she owed him now, which gave her a headache even when she thought about it. "It's... it's complicated," she finished, frustrated. "I'm sorry I scared you, but we found something, and if I could just do a little more research—" She started, another thought suddenly spearing into her mind. 

"What's the time?" She struggled out of bed, sitting up. Thankfully she felt neither dizzy nor woozy, the only discomfort being the pain in her arms—which was manageable. She'd had pain worse. "Is it noon yet?"

"Fifteen minutes past," said Arn, narrowing his eyes at her. "Why?"

"I'm late." She launched herself to her feet, shaking her sleeves down over the bandages. "I have to go—"

Arn scowled. "Now where are you running off to?"

"The library." She stumbled to the door, catching hold of the doorframe and turning, biting her lip. "I have to find out what's happening," she said, apologetically. "I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise."

Arn uncrossed his arms and waved them wildly, looking frustrated. "You can't just run off!" he exclaimed. "You're hurt, and you need rest."

"I have to go." She hesitated, then put a hand on his shoulder, hesitant. When he didn't throw it off, she leaned forward, squeezing him in a one-armed hug that he rather stubbornly melted into. "You'd better be back soon," he muttered. 

"Promise." She dropped a small kiss onto his cheek before hurrying away from the caravan, running a hand through her hair to make sure it wasn't sticking up all over her head like it usually did when she woke up. Hoping Adrian hadn't left, she raced towards the library, yanking her hood up as she ran. 

The library was like everything else in the village was—small, nondescript and dilapidated. There was nobody around, save for a few people meandering about, and she ducked into the doorway quickly, catching her breath and praying that Adrian hadn't written her off as a lost cause and gone home. 

The inside of the library was dark and musty and the whole place smelled like rotting wood and staleness, and she wrinkled her nose, moving deeper into the rickety shelves. She decided to move outwards from the very back of the room to cover more area quicker, and was just moving towards the last row when she turned the corner and collided squarely with something warm and solid. 

She stumbled backwards, nearly knocking a shelf over in her haste to stay upright. Dust sprayed into the air, a plume of thick white stuff that made her eyes water and her throat burn. She managed an apology to whoever she'd bumped into, coughing and waving a hand in front of her face. 

"Sypha?"

She squinted up at the figure—tall, blond, wide startled golden eyes. Relief flooded her, as did a brief spark of happiness. He'd waited for her. "Adrian!" She moved forward, self-consciously wiping the dust from her cheeks. "I'm so sorry I'm late," she rambled. "I didn't mean to keep you."

"No worries," he said, smiling charmingly. Everything about him radiated charm; the easy curve of his lip, the calming sparkle in his eye, the courtliness in the arch of his brows. "I was just leaving, actually." His smile faltered, his brows drawing together. "I must confess I thought you weren't going to come."

"I would never." She dusted off her robes, then lifted a hand to her hair to dust that off, too. "I just got a little held up, is all." The sleeves of her robe slipped as she lowered her arms, and his eyes widened, concern spreading across his face. "What happened to your hands?"

She looked down at the bandages that wrapped her arms. "About why I was late," she said, gesturing to a moldy-looking pair of poufs by a shelf nearby. "It's sort of a long story. Shall we sit?"

* * *

"So he brought me back to the caravan," she finished, sitting back in the pouf and releasing a puff of dust. "And I woke up just half an hour ago."

Adrian was sitting rather awkwardly in the little pouf, his long body folded into the small space. His legs were crossed, his elbows balanced on the armrests with his fingers tented beneath his chin. He blinked owlishly at her when she finished speaking. "So... you woke up and immediately ran here?"

She nodded, leaning forward. She was sitting across from him, their knees nearly knocking against each other. "I want to find out what's going on, now that there's actually evidence to fall back on." She shrugged. " And I didn't want you to think I didn't care, or didn't want to come. It was already late."

He shook his head. "You woke up and ran here without eating anything or checking your wounds because you... didn't want to keep me waiting?"

She blushed. "Well, I—"

"Certainly this can wait." He waved at the books around them. "Certainly _I_ can wait? Surely your health and well-being is more important?"

She laughed a little. "Right now," she said, "nothing is more important than helping the people and finding what is killing them so they can live in peace again. That's all I want to do. These"—she held out her arms—"can definitely wait."

He gazed at her, a strangely distant expression on his face. His eyes were slightly crinkled, as if he were confused, or puzzled by her words. He said nothing, merely looking at her, an almost awestruck look on his face, as if he were looking at a miracle. She found herself blushing under his scrutiny, dropping her eyes from his after a few seconds. 

"So... I need to look at some history books," she said, breaking the silence that had stretched between them for far too long. "I think whatever is doing this might have some connection to the Belmont family."

"I hope you didn't tell Trevor that." He raised an eyebrow smoothly, and she flushed. "Well..."

His eyes widened. "You didn't."

"I did," she admitted. 

"I imagine he'd have taken it quite well." He sighed, tugging on a stray lock of blond hair. "He can get... defensive, when it comes to his family." His voice was softly amused, with a faint strain of something almost resembling endearment coloring it. She thought of the way Trevor had called out Adrian's name when he'd heard her in the trees, the way he'd blushed when she'd teased him. Strange, that Dracula's son and a son of the most famous line of vampire hunters could wind up as such unlikely friends. Or perhaps just a little more than friends... "I hope you didn't fight again?" Adrian asked, and she was broken from her thoughts with a jump.

"Not exactly." She worried at her lower lip. "It's nothing to worry about." She stood, stretching with a sigh. "I think I know how to find out more about this woman," she said, lowering her arms. She noticed that Adrian's gaze lingered worriedly on the bandages, his lower lip curling downwards adorably. He looked up at her moments later, still frowning. "How?"

She gestured at the shelves. "We start backwards."

Which was how, ten minutes later, she and Adrian found themselves in a small, cramped part of the library at the very back, rifling through history books that predated even Dracula's arrival in this part of Wallachia, as Adrian had solemnly stated once he'd caught sight of the date on the book's moldy cover. "He only arrived a hundred or so years ago," he'd explained, squinting at her through the cloud of dust that permeated the air. "This isn't much older, but it's still older."

"There's a chance—a very slight one, mind—that this could have happened before," he said now, thoughtfully scratching his nose. When he lowered his hand there was a smudge of dust on his cheek, which she decided not to mention to him just yet. "So we should be looking for attacks that seem similar, though I don't think it's very likely."

"So... here," she said, sliding a book from the shelf that was dated seventy years ago. She rifled through, making a face at the smudged, yellowed paper. "We need to look between here"—she gestured at one shelf on the top—"and here." She pointed to a shelf at the very bottom. Between the two, there were about sixty books. "Start looking," she sighed. 

And so they started, rifling through each book cover to cover, occasionally pointing out things of interest and discussing it for a few minutes, or pointing out something amusing and giggling over it briefly before sobering and continuing the search. 

Adrian snorted as he flipped through a book dated fifty years ago, holding it in front of him with a brow quirked. "There's so much drivel in this, it's astounding that it's a history book," he said. "Why on earth should I care about this nonsense?" He slid it back onto the shelf, picking up another. "Why has someone recorded the market shares in a book about history?" He sighed. "These people honestly need to get these redone."

She laughed, peering into her own book. "Some aren't too bad, though. I'm sure we'll find something eventually."

"Hmm. Let's hope." 

A few minutes later, he called out again. 

"I think I've found something," he said, looking up. He held the book out, and she blinked, looking up from her own book. "Really?" 

When he nodded she leaned forward, just as he too leaned towards her, and suddenly he was standing far too close, pressed up against her in the small, enclosed space. She exhaled sharply at the feeling of his chest rising and falling against hers, the way his breaths fanned out on the curve of her neck. She felt her own breath catch in her throat as she found herself suddenly looking right into his face, her eyes immediately straying to the full curve of his lips, slightly parted to show the barest hint of fangs. There was a faint line on his lower lip, where he'd most likely bitten it. 

She tore her eyes away from his lips, raising them with an effort. They caught on the little smear of dust on his cheek and then suddenly she found her fingers reaching up of their own volition, her thumb gently wiping away the smear. His lashes fluttered, a little puff of breath escaping his lips as she touched him. His skin was cool and smooth, and soft against her fingertips. 

"There was dust," she said a little absently, her voice breathless and her fingers still resting lightly on his cheek. He said nothing, his eyes merely darting all over her face, not stilling or slowing. They were like golden doors to another world, like portals that could sweep her off her feet and into the unknown.

She blushed and stepped back hastily, clutching the book in her hands so tightly that her knuckles blanched. Adrian's cheeks were slightly pink as well as he coughed, biting down again onto his lip, and she saw the faint line there flare when his teeth freed the soft skin. "Here," he said, thrusting the book towards her, and she took it, her cheeks still warm. 

She read the page, and as she did, she quickly forgot her earlier embarrassment, her eyes widening as they skimmed the pages. She flipped the page, her mouth going dry and her heart hammering with excitement—finally, _finally_ , they had a lead. Something to hold onto. A current that could carry them further downstream, a spark in the darkness that had earlier surrounded them. 

"Well?" Adrian peered over her shoulder, blinking. "Have I found anything of merit?"

She held the book up, feeling a grin spread across her face. "Merit?" she asked. "Adrian, I think you may just have found out what we're looking for."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trevor: Sypha get away from my hot vampire crush.
> 
> Sypha: Trevor get away from my hot vampire crush.
> 
> Adrian: *panicking* I'm bisexual.


	7. Grapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Grapes:** _Abundance, transformation, fertility and strength of affection._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is the longest chapter yet—and it was actually originally nearly 10,000 words, but that's pushing it, so I was forced to cut down. And yet, the result was this monstrosity of a chapter. Please bear with it, the ending is totally worth the whole word storm!!!  
> Hope y'all like this one as much as I loved writing it! Reviews are, as ever, appreciated. :D

**_Trevor_ **

Trevor swung himself back into his bedroom, his fingers freeing the cold metal of the balcony. He landed lightly in a crouch, then waited for a few seconds, hearing the light thud of fabric hitting the floor as the folds of his cape settled around his legs. Once he was certain that he hadn't been too loud or woken anyone up, he stood, making his way into his room. 

He stomped tiredly to the bathroom first without stopping to remove his weapons, kicking the door shut behind him and turning the taps in the sink on to their full capacity, letting freezing water gush from them and run over his hands. He splashed it over his face, letting the shock of the cold chase away what little sleepiness had clouded his mind. 

He looked up into the mirror, his hands braced on either side of the sink, his shoulders squared. He looked haggard and tired, with shadows beneath his eyes and lines on his face that hadn't been there earlier. He looked down at his hands again, thankful that there was no blood on them. He didn't think he'd be able to handle it if there was blood on his hands that wasn't his own. 

If it was the blood of a monster, it was fine. The thick black blood of some monsters, Ichor, the unnaturally bright ruby-red of a vampire's blood, even the slime that spurted out of some demons—all that was fine. But to have the blood of another _person_ on his hands—he couldn't stand the sight of it. It forced images into his mind he didn't want to see, brought to his mind all the people he couldn't save over the years, people who had died because he hadn't been fast enough, strong enough, smart enough.

There weren't many, but they were still there, haunting his thoughts, always lurking in the back of his mind. And added to that list now were the young men who'd died in the past few weeks, even though he knew rationally that there was nothing he could really have done to stop those killings. But he'd still keep adding every boy he couldn't save to that list, until he killed whatever was doing it. 

He still couldn't remember her face. All he could remember were her eyes, large and almond-shaped and bright blue—the same eyes he was looking into now. He stared desperately into his own reflection, almost as if to tell himself that it was just a coincidence, that there was no way that his family had anything to do with the murders. 

He thought of the fire that had seared itself into his vision as she'd controlled Sypha, the way her face had filled with terror before going frighteningly blank, the flame in her fingers sliding up her arms and shoulders. He'd thought she was going to die, that she was going to be burned to death by her own magic and he'd be powerless to stop it. 

He didn't know what had taken over him, what instinct had overridden all his others and made him do what he'd done—but when he'd spoken to her he'd felt something decidedly click inside him, something that solidified a connection that he hadn't even known was there. She'd looked at him with his own eyes and he knew immediately that she would do what he said. 

He wrenched himself away from the mirror, twisting the taps back off as he turned his back on his reflection, unable to bear the sight of his own face. He felt like he was going insane slowly, like this was all some horrible nightmare and he'd wake up in the morning and then it would all be gone, and he'd be free of this guilt. 

He exhaled, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. So that was what it was, the feeling that choked him whenever he went back to the village and saw the people's tear-stained faces and the way they avoided looking at each other and walked with their heads down, defeated. It was guilt—and of course it was. What else could it be, when whatever was killing the people had so obvious a connection to him, and only him?

He moved back into his bedroom, giving a slow shrug, allowing his cape to fall from his shoulders, pooling on the ground at his feet. Without bothering to pick it up, he mechanically reached for his belt, unbuckling it and unlatching his whip and sword. He shoved them back into their hiding places, then tossed the empty belt away, where it landed on the floor by the desk. He didn't bother picking that up, either. 

He glanced at his bed, the covers stretched across the mattress immaculately. His mother must have come in sometime during the day, he thought distantly. He moved towards it, a hand trailing across the sheets, then backed away, moving instead towards the hearth, in front of which he sat heavily, gazing into the dying coals, which glowed a deep orange. He busied himself for a few minutes building up a fire, carefully coaxing a flame from the embers and ashes. 

The fire sprang to life almost all at once, suddenly swelling beneath his ministrations. He drew his hand back quickly as it leaped upwards in tongues of red and orange, the heat stinging his cheeks. He balked at the feeling and sight of it, his heartbeat picking up speed as his brain immediately yanked him back to the fire in Sypha's hands that had blazed up all around her, lifting her hair in a dry wind, making the tears of pain that slid down her face vanish in wisps of steam. 

He was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, kicking the ashes that had gathered in the grate over the fire, fingers gripping the edge of the hearth. The fire guttered as the ash struck it, burying the ribbons of red and orange that fluttered there. Within seconds it winked out, the coals sputtering briefly before going out entirely. The suddenness of its extinguishing plunged the room into darkness, the only light coming from the moonlight that leached in from the window. 

He sat by the dead hearth, watching the coals too lose their glow, turning a dull gray before crumbling into ashes. There was too much to think about, too much that had happened. He found himself unable to think of one thing at a time—everything was racing through his mind all at once, blurring into a whirlwind. 

So instead he emptied his mind of all of it, simply gazing at the slice of muted shine that was all that was left of the fire in the hearth, not moving, his knees drawn up to his chest, arms looped around his legs. He was thinking about everything and nothing at all, hardly even breathing. He didn't move, not even when the first rays of dawn bled through the sky, lighting it to a liquid blood-red, creeping into the room. 

His eyes were burning each time he blinked, and his whole body was rigid and sore, but still he didn't move to get up. The last thing he remembered hearing was the clock on the mantel striking six.

* * *

_"Trevor," breathed a voice, one that slithered through the air like mist before fading away like a whisper. It was dark, all around him, so dark that he couldn't see anything. He could still hear the voice all around him, filling his ears and his mind. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, like the way he could remember the way his mother used to sing to him softly in French when he was a baby—but he couldn't remember the precise sound of her voice, or the tune of the song._

_"Can't you see me, Trevor?" the voice whispered. "I'm right here."_

_Color bloomed in the dark like paint dripped into water, spreading outwards and surrounding him suddenly. Trees rose from the ground and blue-gray bled into the sky, and then suddenly he was standing in a forest, trees ringing the space around him, stabbing downwards in a ring as if to guard him. It wasn't the forest he was used to—the trees here were wider spaced, more skeletal, more dead. There were no leaves on their slender branches, and the bark seemed discolored and splotched._

_He couldn't tell where the voice was coming from, but it curled through the air, everywhere and nowhere at once. "Turn around, Trevor," it whispered. "Look at me."_

_He turned, and she walked out of the mist that shrouded the trees, a figure as skeletal as the trees that she surrounded herself with. He tried to see her face, but it shifted and shimmered, and he couldn't focus on one part of her face at once—all he could see were her eyes, bright blue and horribly familiar and sickening._

_"You know something connects you and me," she whispered, taking a step closer. Her feet were bare, and he noticed that as she walked they didn't quite touch the forest floor. "You know who I am."_

_"No," he said, and his voice was cracked and dry, as if from disuse. "No, I don't—I don't know who you are—"_

_"You saw me last night," she said, taking another few steps closer. She was near enough now that he could see every brushstroke of her coal-black lashes as they feathered down over her cheeks. "You saw my face."_

_"I can't remember—"_

_"Can't, or won't?" She laughed then, a cackling, near-manic laugh that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "Perhaps you have been able to see me all along, but your mind is so frightened of what it sees that you force it down, and then you find that everything is a mere blur?" She took another step closer, and try as he might, he still couldn't look at her face._

_He took an involuntary step back, his heart racing. "What do you want? Who are you? Why are you doing this—killing those people?"_

_"So many questions." Her eyes were the same as his, even the way they seemed pale gray in the morning light but leaped out like twin blue flames in the darkness. It made him want to be sick. "You know so little, Trevor." She moved even nearer, and how she was close enough to touch. She held out a skeletal hand, the gray skin stretched tightly over the bones, which jutted out at her wrists. He was suddenly glad he couldn't see her face._

_"If you come with me," she whispered, "I can show you everything."_

_He hesitated. "What will you show me?"_

_She glided closer. "All I ask is that you do not," she said. Emaciated and rotting her body might be, but her voice was beautiful—deep, for a woman's, rich and lilting. He could have listened to her forever and not get tired of it. But there was a sort of poisonous undercurrent to it, like the way a snake's jewel-colored scales hid the venom underneath it. "If you do not ask me, then I will show you all you need to know."_

_"But how?"_

_She laughed again, but this time it was softer. "My curious little wolf," she said, and her rotting fingers came up to caress his cheek. He flinched away from her touch, feeling revulsion rise in his throat. "Don't touch me."_

_Her features shifted again, and he thought he could see her smile. "I understand that you may feel disgusted," she said. "I was once lovely, you know. Death has made a corpse of me, the way it does everyone. One day even your pretty face won't be this pretty anymore. As for those eyes, however..." She exhaled, and he felt it like he felt a cold breeze. "They'll always be blue and bright. Just like mine."_

_She cocked her head to the side, and he felt her demeanor shift, her easygoing casualness turning to malice, radiating off her form like cold mist leaching from the sea. "You'll grow older," she said. "But he won't. He'll be just as beautiful as he is now in a thousand years."_

_"Who are you talking—"_

_"You want him, don't you? And you're disgusted with yourself for it." Her eyes glittered, latching onto him with something almost resembling hunger darkening them. "You hate the way you can't take your off every move he makes, and you hate yourself for the thoughts you think when he's around. You've killed so many like him, and yet you dream of him every night."_

_He felt blood rush to his face, and something that was part disgust and part humiliation and part anger simmered in his chest. "Don't—don't tell me what I—"_

_"If your mother or your father knew what you think when you're with him..." Her laugh was no longer soft. "They would strip you of your name. They would bury you alive. They'd make sure you never saw the sun again. That's what they did, you know." She drifted nearer. "That's what they did to those who dared to love as they chose. And that's what they'll do to you."_

_"Get away from me." He moved backwards again, shame and anger roiling in his stomach. "I don't—he's—"_

_"Don't think I am not there every night," she said. "I am always there, but you only see me when I wish to be seen. You know what I do, don't you?" Her rich voice colored with amusement. "They give me their hearts, those young boys. You think he will not give me his as well?"_

_"'Give' you their hearts?" he laughed, a bitter, acerbic laugh that didn't sound like himself. "You rip their hearts out of their chests. That's hardly an offer of goodwill."_

_"Oh, no. They give their hearts to me. I simply ask politely, and they rip their own chests open so willingly. All I do is ask, and they give it to me. I'm very... persuasive, you see." Her eyes glittered. "Just ask your Speaker friend. She'll tell you exactly how persuasive I am."_

_"What do you want?" he asked again, taking another step backwards._

_"I want you to_ know _." Her voice hardened. "I want you to know what you did to me. I want you to know, and I want you to realize, and suffer the same way I did."_

_"I haven't done anything," he said, perplexed. "I don't even know who you are."_

_"Maybe not," she said coldly, and her eyes had gone completely flat and hard and cold. "But soon you will. And when you find out, you'll never go into the woods again. But I'll make sure you come to me, Trevor. I swear it."_

_He opened his mouth to call out to her, but she blinked, and then she was gone, and the breeze stopped abruptly. A complete silence fell, one that rang in his ears, the last vestiges of her voice still echoing in the calm air. Darkness spread in his vision, devouring the trees and the sky, and the ground tilted underneath his feet._

_He fell, and the darkness opened up around him as he did, swallowing him whole. All he could do was close his eyes as it swept him away, unable to fight it. It smelled like tarnished dreams and dead hopes, and far in the distance, he thought he could hear the sound of someone laughing._

* * *

Someone was banging on the door. 

He peeled his eyes open, wincing at the harsh light that stabbed into his eyes when he did. His mind felt fuzzy and useless, and he froze for a moment, feeling the dream he'd had slipping away from his mind's reach. He scrambled after it desperately, something in him telling him it was important, that he needed to remember this—but he came up empty-handed, the images and sounds of it turning to liquid in his hands and dripping uselessly onto the ground. 

A jolt of pain shot through his side and he winced, all thoughts of the dream fading from his mind. It took him a moment to realize where he was—he'd apparently fallen asleep in front of the hearth, curled up on his side rather awkwardly, and his arms ached from the position, as did his back. And his hips. And his neck. Not to mention his legs. His mouth was dry and tasted like old paper, and his eyes were still burning. To top it off, he had a splitting headache.

All in all, he felt like shit.

He managed to get to his feet, wincing as he did, stumbling over to the door, which was still being banged on, loudly. His head felt like someone was in there with a hammer and was smashing his skull open every time a knock sounded. He threw it open, squinting against the harsh light that streamed in from the windows, momentarily blinded. 

"About time," huffed a voice, and he sighed, blinking blearily at who was standing on the other side of the doorway. All he could see in his dazed state was a mass of blond hair and a rather disapproving frown. 

"Why'd they send you to wake me up this time?" He rubbed a hand across his face. "I'd have thought you'd throw a fit."

"Oh, shut up." Being only a year older than he was, he had the most arguments with Chelsea, but that was probably because they were the most alike. The thought depressed him to no end, because she always said whatever he was thinking before he could say it. It made him feel distinctly robbed. "It's almost noon," she went on. "Why on earth were you in bed?"

"Had a late night." He blinked at her, and she swam into focus. She was the only one of all seven of them who'd gotten their father's blond hair, which she wore in a long, thick braid that hung till her waist. She raised an eyebrow. "Late night?" she echoed. "What on earth were you doing to have a late night? Staring at the wall? Watching your faucet drip?"

He made a swipe for her, which she evaded easily, owing to his still half-asleep state, giggling. "Come on, Trevor, just admit you're a lazy arse," she said, folding her arms. Her eyes drifted behind him, focusing on something behind his shoulder. They widened, and her brows drew together. "Trevor," she said distinctly, "did you sleep on the _floor?"_

"I—what?" He twisted around to look, following her gaze, and saw his untouched bed, pristine and empty, and the rug by the fireplace completely rucked up. _Shit._ "It's not—" he began.

"And you're still in your clothes!" She stared at him, her mouth open. "Trevor, what is going on with you?"

He knew he couldn't tell her why he'd had a late night, nor could he deny that he'd literally fallen asleep in front of the fireplace with all his clothes on. So, naturally, he went for the offensive.

"Whatever I was doing, at least I don't make eyes at the milkmaid or the kitchen-girls when nobody's looking or sneak out of my room at three in the morning to—"

"Shut _up!"_ she hissed, stepping forward and grabbing his arm in a vice-like grip, her eyes darting around frantically. Okay, now he felt like shit for bringing that up. He always knew just how to ruin everything, didn't he? "You fucking idiot, what if someone heard you—?"

"Ouch—okay, sorry!" He attempted to shake off her grip, but she didn't relent. "Fuck's sake, Chel, let go of me—"

"If you tell mother—"

"Come on, would I?" 

She narrowed her eyes at him and he gazed back at her challengingly, and finally she relented, her fingers loosening around his arm. "If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I swear, Trevor—"

"I wouldn't," he said. "You know I wouldn't, come on." He bumped her shoulder gently with his own, and she scoffed, her hand falling away from his arm. "Although if you do, I can tell mother how you and Adrian Tepes snuck off that night and only came back hours later," she said, and he felt a blush rise into his face. "What? That's not—"

She grinned at him. "You're no better than I am, and you know it. Though I must say you have extravagant taste. Him being half-vampire and all. Not to mention he's drop-dead gorgeous." She winked at him. "Never knew you had a thing for blonds, brother dear."

"Fuck off."

" _You_ fuck off," she huffed, turning to walk away. "Now wash and get out of there," she said. "Mother said she'd been meaning to talk to you and she wants to do it now. She didn't tell me what about," she said as he opened his mouth. "So don't ask—although I'm pretty sure I heard her and father talking about finding you a girl— _don't_ look at me like that, I'm not the one saying it—but get down there fast. She doesn't like to wait, and you know it." 

She waved at him with both hands, gesturing in the general direction of his room as he scowled at her. "Oh, just get dressed." She wrinkled her nose. "And it might do you some good to wash up—you reek." 

"Thanks," he muttered, turning to close the door. 

"Anytime, little brother," she called, moving down the corridor with her long golden braid swinging behind her. "Anytime."

* * *

The lights across the hall went dark.

His eyes flicked towards the slight movement, drawn to it. He sat up quickly, shoving himself up amidst the tangle of pillows and sheets he'd cocooned around his body. He waited for few seconds, then when he was sure that everyone was asleep and there was nobody in the corridor, he slid out of bed. 

He turned the lamps low, low enough for it to seem dark if someone looked under his door, but bright enough to see where he was going and what he was doing. Ducking by his fireplace, he wedged his sword out of the loose tile, watching the mellow glow of the amber lamplight bathe the blade in honey. He gazed down at the Belmont crest stamped in gold on the crossguard, the light running off the gold foil. He stood, sliding it into the sheath at his waist, and just as he did the edge of the blade caught on his fingertip, slicing across his skin. 

He winced, looking down at his hand, at the line of red weeping blood that the sword had drawn across his finger. His blood was smeared on the blade as well, a fan of red that glinted sinisterly in the low light. He watched as if transfixed for a few moments, hypnotized by the way the gash welled up, then spilled over, blood in a steady stream trickling down his finger before spattering on the floor. It was such a dark red, almost black in the dimness. 

He blinked, shaking his head, breaking out of his reverie. He sheathed the blade, placing his finger in his mouth as he moved towards the cupboard. Grabbing up his whip from where it was stashed in the false bottom, he looped it in quick, efficient coils despite the throbbing in his finger. Once he'd sufficiently tossed his sheets around and scattered his pillows, he doused the lamp, then moved towards the balcony. 

He swung himself up onto the railing, perched precariously on only his tiptoes, crouched onto the small area. He found his balance, feeling gravity pulling him sideways towards the ground. He gripped the rail, wincing as the cold metal dug into the cut on his hand, and looked out over the forest, feeling apprehension claw its way up his throat. He didn't want to go back in there, not after what had happened last night. What if this time he wouldn't be able to pull off what he had managed last time, and someone else got hurt as a result?

He looked down at the rosebushes that his mother spent so much time snipping and pruning and watering into perfection, the delicate blossoms carrying a heavy scent that wafted all the way to his balcony. The ones directly below him were a light shade of lilac that he could see even in the darkness, and he picked out a gap between two bushes where he usually aimed his landing. Taking a deep breath, he freed the railing, dropping like a stone exactly where he'd aimed for. 

He stood, taking a few steps to work out the aches in his ankles and knees, moving into the shadows. Once he'd squeezed himself out of the compound, he flattened himself back against the wall, teeth gnawing at his lip as he gazed out at the forest spread out in front of him. It seemed innocuous, innocent almost now, with the wind curling through the trees and rustling the leaves and the faint scurrying of the woodland rats and foxes reaching his ears. 

He gripped the edge of the wall with his fingertips, feeling the rough edge dig into his skin. _Come on, move,_ he told himself, his teeth gnawing more vigorously on his lip. _Move, what are you so afraid of?_

Afraid—was he afraid? Afraid of what, or who, lurked between the trees, waiting for him? Or was he merely afraid to take the blame for what was happening, to admit that whatever monster was killing the people had a sickening and twisted connection to him and his family in some way? _If I were you, I'd read up on your family history..._ Isn't that what Sypha had said? But he hadn't done it, too apprehensive of what he'd find. 

A coward. That was what he was—he wanted to deny it, but he knew it was true. He could face a horde of demons plucked straight from hell, he could drive stakes through the unbeating hearts of vampires and burn them into ash, he could kill anything that threatened the people, any demon or monster or nightmare. But he couldn't face the reality of this situation, he couldn't face the truth. 

He exhaled, then pushed off from the wall before he could lose his bravado—which was already pitifully low—and strode right into the cover of the trees, his tread soundless on the spongy, mossy forest floor. One of his hands wrapped around the handle of his sword, feeling the cool leather of the hilt against his palm. His brain kicked into defense mode, ticking over possible events and what he could do to retaliate. He was pretty sure that whatever he had seen yesterday—whether it was a ghost or a wraith or something he hadn't yet encountered—wouldn't harm him, but he had to be sure.

He veered towards the village, not even knowing what he'd do, going there—he just wanted to get out of the house, get away from the scratchy suffocating walls and the repressive weight of the walls around him and the ceiling above him and the lack of air. He couldn't stand just sitting in his room thinking about what had happened, and with each passing second he'd grow more sure that somehow everything was his fault.

He felt clear, cool air on his face and he blinked, realizing suddenly that he had broken out of the trees a few paces ago, the forest ending behind him. He turned, fingers loosening on the hilt of his blade. He hadn't even been looking where he was going, or thinking about where he was going. Something from inside seemed to be laughing at him, or perhaps it was merely the wind, whispering through the leaves. 

He turned slowly, heading towards the lights of the village up ahead. He moved quickly, not wanting to turn his back on the forest for too long. After about a mile he caught sight of the Speakers' caravan, tucked away in a small, remote corner of a desolate street. The lamps were all cracked and broken, and the road was worn and coarse underneath his boots. There was a light inside, but he couldn't see anything. 

He briefly considered dropping in, seeing whether Sypha was all right or not, but he didn't, moving further down the street away from the caravan. He knew that she wouldn't appreciate the gesture, partly because they were sort of still trying to one-up each other and partly because he knew that she wouldn't want him to come and see her when she was incapacitated in any way. He knew it would probably make her feel small, or dependent or vulnerable—she seemed like that sort of person, even if he hadn't known her very long. 

So he made a beeline for the inn, subtly keeping an eye out for a long black coat and a shower of blond hair. He thought he caught sight of him a few times, but ended up turning away every time, disappointed. _Stupid,_ he thought. _Hoping to see a vampire of all the creatures. What would your ancestors think?_

He kicked the door of the inn open, keeping his head down as he did. He got an ale from the counter and slunk off to his usual table in the corner to sulk, hunching to make sure the fur of his cloak covered his face—then settled in for what he hoped and thought would be a long, totally boring and utterly uneventful night. 

He was wrong.

He was halfway through his sixth tankard and was feeling blissfully and magnificently angry and irritated for absolutely no reason when the door of the inn opened, letting in a blast of cold air that he could feel all the way at the back. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, glaring down at the amber liquid sloshing inside the tankard before draining the rest of it in two swallows. His throat burned as it went down, and it felt like someone was stoking a fire in his stomach, but he was too drunk already to care. 

He kept telling himself that it was worth it.

He managed to get up without knocking his chair over, which was commendable—and then he moved towards the bar to get another drink. He wondered not-so-idly how he'd get home in this state, but thinking made his head hurt, so he stopped. He'd wing it when the time came, and it wasn't as if he'd never gone home drunk before. He managed to get his tankard refilled, then stumbled back to his table and sat heavily, wincing at the way everything tilted and blurred as he did. _It's worth it. It's worth it. It's worth it._

"I see you're handling this the manly way." 

He jumped at the suddenness of the voice that had just murmured in his ear, and he swiveled around fast—ugh, too fast. His head spun as he squinted, and was just able to make out lots of blond hair and a disapproving frown. "Adrian?"

"Here to save your useless hide as usual." He held up a tankard of his own in a mocking toast, took a delicate sip, then made a face. "This tastes like piss and water," he muttered as he seated himself gracefully next to Trevor. "Cheap and disgusting." He sighed. 

"What the hell're you doing here?" He was slurring his words already. He was going to need to build some tolerance, he thought idly. "Thought you weren't coming."

He shrugged, taking another swallow of the beer. "I'm full of surprises."

"Yeah, sure." He snorted. "Full of shit, more like."

"Shut up." He lifted his tankard to his lips again, shuddering as he lowered it. "I suppose this isn't half bad after all," he said, inspecting it. "Although I suppose if one gets drunk enough, it won't taste like anything at all." He heaved a theatrical sigh. "Perhaps that is what I'll do." He nodded decisively. "Yes, that's what I'll do."

"No," laughed Trevor. "Adrian Tepes, getting blackout drunk on cheap ale? Never."

Adrian polished off his tankard, raising his eyebrows. "Like I said," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Full of surprises."

He shook his head, taking a drink of his own. His earlier irritation at the universe had miraculously faded, and he felt a pleasant buzzing in his chest. Maybe tonight wouldn't end up being a complete waste, after all. How bad could it be, if Adrian was here? 

"Wait here." Adrian made to stand. "I'll get another."

"Mine too." He held out his now-empty tankard, raising an eyebrow. He was properly drunk now, and he thought he could almost feel his blood fizzing in his veins and his thoughts slow down, turning sluggish and unsteady. It occurred to him suddenly that there was something he wanted to tell Adrian, but he couldn't quite recall what it was. 

Adrian made a face at him. "No way," he said. "How much have you had to drink already? I can't even smell your blood under all the alcohol in your system, and your blood smells strong."

"Hang on." He frowned, lowering the tankard again. "You can... _smell_ people's blood? Like, actually smell their blood?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." His cheeks went slightly pink as he said it. "It's sort of an instinct, mostly. When I get close enough to a person, I can smell it like a sort of second sense of smell—it's distinguishable, and faint, but it's still there."

"Huh." He leaned back. "How does my blood smell?"

His cheeks went pinker. "I can't really describe it, Belmont. It's not like ordinary scents where I can just say it smells like something you've already experienced. Believe me"—he picked up his empty tankard, sighing as he did—"you've _never_ smelled anything like the way I smell blood." He glided off towards the bar, and Trevor watched him go, worrying at his lower lip and noting the mesmerizing sway of his hips beneath folds of his coat. 

It was going to be a very, _very_ long night indeed.

* * *

"And then," Adrian giggled, "he _threw_ him—right across the room, like he was made of hay or straw or something—and he told him never to bother us ever again, or next time he'd"—he hiccuped, wiping the corner of his eye—"he'd dangle him upside down from the roof for a month."

"How is that a suitable punishment for a vampire?" Trevor snorted as Adrian took another drink. "Don't the lot of you hang upside down when you sleep or some shit like that?"

Adrian choked on his beer, dissolving into another fit of giggles. He looked adorably rumpled, with his hair frizzing and curling with the humidity in the room and his cheekbones permanently flushed a brilliant pink. He'd eschewed his gloves, and had rolled up the sleeves of his coat till his elbows. Trevor had never seen so much of his arms before, and he found himself fascinated by the smooth, supple skin of his forearms, the delicate traceries of blue-green veins beneath. 

"That's—that's _bats_ , you idiot," he wheezed, his eyes streaming. "We don't sleep upside down, that's absolutely hilarious." He leaned both elbows on the moldy surface of the table, still gasping for breath. Somehow in the last hour he'd scooted his chair nearer and nearer so that he could hear Trevor and be heard himself as the inn had filled, getting noisier, and he was right next to him now—like _right_ next to him. His thighs were pressing to Trevor's, their knees bumping every time one of them shifted even minutely. 

"No, just imagine it." He grinned. "You and your dad just hanging from the rafters and your mother sleeping on a cot right below." He laughed as Adrian shook his head, still grinning while he took another drink, slopping the beer all over himself. Trevor couldn't even remember how much they'd drunk—eight tankards? Nine? 

"And your hair hanging down like some sort of peace flag." He reached out, tugging on a stray lock of it, and it was the first time he'd willingly touched his hair—besides the time he'd grabbed it while they were fighting, but that didn't count. Because he hadn't registered then exactly how soft it was, or how pliant. Or how smooth, or silky, or how glossy or satiny... 

Before he knew what he was doing his finger had wrapped the lock of hair around it, coiling it around his skin. It was somehow even smoother like this, like pale satin, or corn silk. "You have nice hair," he said, and if he wasn't this smashed, he'd have kicked himself for it. As it was, the stupidity of what he had just said was lost on him. 

And rather than rolling his eyes or scoffing or huffing, Adrian's cheeks reddened even more at the statement, and he looked down, clearly flattered. "Really?"

"Yeah." He tugged on it. "It's really..." He gestured vaguely, unable to find a word. God, he'd just had an internal monologue about the stuff and now he couldn't remember a word of it. "It's really blond," was all he could come up with at the end, and he nodded grandly, letting go of the lock of hair, which sprung free in a hypnotizing curl of gold. "Yeah. It's blond."

"Thanks," Adrian said, looking oddly touched. He was smiling in a very soppy manner at Trevor, then blinked, blushed, and hastily drank some more. "You've got nice hair too," he said, blinking at him once he'd lowered his tankard. "It's sort of like an angry hedgehog at times, what with the..." He poked Trevor's head. "The spiky things. But it's—well, hedgehogs are cute, and it's, well—it's nice."

He was almost too close now, and his face was mere inches from Trevor's. He could see the flecks of darker gold in his eyes again, but this time he was too muddled up in the head to count them, but he remembered—eleven in his left, four in his right. He could even see the way the sun had burned his likely over-sensitive skin, and the beginnings of freckles appearing on his nose and cheekbones. They were really cute. He really wanted to touch one. 

"Uh," he said intelligently. "Hedgehogs."

"Mmhmm." He took another long draft, the graceful line of his throat moving as he swallowed, barely wincing. "You know, hedgehogs—small adorable brown round things that look cuddly and soft, but if you touch one..." He made a smashing motion with his fist. "You realize that what you mistook for cuddly fur is actually a lot of sharp prickly spiky things."

"I _know_ what a hedgehog is, for God's sake." He rolled his eyes. "I never really thought about it, though." He reached up to touch his own head, blinking. "Yeah, I sort of see what you mean. Huh." 

Adrian smiled blindingly, and it left Trevor a bit tongue-tied. "You know," he began grandly, gesturing with his tankard so vigorously that a bit of ale spilled out, spattering onto the table, "there was something important that I needed to tell you. Something we found earlier this morning."

"We?" He frowned. 

"Oh—me and Sypha." He waved a dismissive hand. "I met her today earlier, I can't quite remember when exactly—" He broke off, squinting at Trevor. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Trevor tried to tone down the glare. "It's nothing. So—Sypha, huh?" 

"Yes." He gazed down at his nearly-empty tankard, swirling the contents around and smiling as if to himself. "She's really very smart, you know. Book smart _and_ street smart. And I don't know if you've noticed, but there's this one curly bit of her hair that falls across her eyes when she's leaning down or concentrating." He held a hand up to his eyes, twirling a finger as if to illustrate his point. He gazed dreamily into space. "She's really pretty."

Okay, now Trevor was really annoyed. "No, I hadn't noticed, thanks," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I don't spend all my free time staring at girls—"

"I wasn't _staring_ —and you don't need to make it sound like that, you know." He was blushing, his eyes very bright in his red face. "And why do you have to get worked up about it, I was only meeting her because we needed to find out what took over her and controlled her last night—"

"Oh, so she told you everything, did she?" He glared at him, the earlier pleasant buzzing that came with Adrian's nearness dissipating. "So what are you doing here, then? Why'd you come here to waste your time with me when you could be with Sypha who's so much _smarter_ —"

"This is ridiculous," he snapped, setting his tankard down furiously. "It isn't as if I don't—I mean, you're both—" He bit his lip hard, his cheeks flushing again. "We need to find out what's going on," he said almost apologetically. "And if it means I have to work with both of you, then that's what I'm going to do."

"But that's—" He set his tankard down as well, shaking his head. "I mean, you can't do that."

"Why not?" He was beginning to look angry again. 

"Because, well—I mean, we were doing this first, before she showed up," Trevor said. "And now she's sort of hindering us looking into it—"

"She isn't hindering us, she's hindering you." He glared. "I really don't understand why you dislike her so much, she's really not at all as bad as you think she is, and if you got to know her then I'm sure you'll change your mind. And let go of your stubbornness on top of that."

"And there it is again," snapped Trevor. "You're so... I don't know." He scrabbled for the words, the words that had raced through his mind all day, but he couldn't get a grasp on any of them. "I mean, I'm half expecting you to just tell me to do this on my own and carry on with her—"

"That's it." Adrian kicked his chair back, standing. He stumbled as soon as he got to his feet, but he righted himself quickly, glaring at Trevor. "You are so—you're just so—" He threw his hands up, then stalked away, his coat flapping behind him as he left the bar and slammed the door behind him.

Trevor swore softly to himself, then tossed a coin onto the table and hurried after Adrian, pulling the door open and stepping out into the frigid air. He saw a flash of black disappear behind an alleyway and ducked into it, quickly catching up to the dhampir, who was still walking as if he had a destination in mind—while in reality the alleyway ended a few paces in front of him.

"Adrian, wait—"

"No, you're being ridiculous and stupid—"

"I'm sorry, I just don't want—"

" _What_ don't you want, exactly?" He turned, hands on his hips, glaring. "You don't want me to spend time with Sypha? You don't want me to help Sypha? You don't want me to talk about Sypha? Which one? Choose."

He sighed. "Okay, I know what I said was really..." He gestured. "You know."

His eyes narrowed further. "Shitty. Stupid. Dickish."

"That's not a word."

"Well, it is now."

"Well—then yeah, basically. And..."

"And?"

He sighed, frustrated. "And I'm sorry. Okay?"

The furious expression on his face faltered, the tiniest of grins tugging at his lips almost grudgingly. "You're cute when you're jealous."

"I am _not_ jealous!" 

"Okay, you're not." He sidled right up to Trevor, slowly backing him against the wall of the alley. He felt it pressing to his back, the cold of the stone seeping through his tunic and his cloak, and the flushed heat of Adrian's body pressed against his front, making blood rise to his face. "What are you—"

"Shh." He placed a single slender finger on Trevor's lips, eyes huge and dark in the dimness. "Shut up for one minute of your life, Belmont."

He shut up. 

Adrian was looking at him, lips slightly parted, the gold of his eyes slowly being swallowed up by black. He saw him swallow, and his eyes fell shut halfway, only a thin strip of gold visible beneath his eyelids. He leaned closer, then closer, then closer still, until the tip of his nose just brushed Trevor's throat. He opened his eyes again, and his pupils had expanded even further, as if he had just inhaled a particularly intoxicating drug. 

He looked down, then stiffened, his body tensing into a rigid line. "What happened to your hand?" he breathed, and Trevor looked down too, surprised—and saw the ragged cut that had been made there earlier, still raw and red. "I, uh—my blade slipped," he said, and Adrian's head snapped up, his eyes just millimeters from Trevor's. 

"I told you earlier," he murmured, and his breath was hot on Trevor's ear, "that you'd never smelled anything the way blood smells to me." He exhaled, closing his eyes. "And I was right—because do you know what I smell?" He moved even closer, and Trevor gave up on thinking; his brain was total mush. 

"You wanted to know how your blood smells to me," he said, and his finger traced slowly across the pulse in his neck, and a second later it was replaced by his lips, which just ghosted over his heartbeat. The edges of his fangs dragged lightly over his skin and he couldn't stop the groan that spilled from his lips, heat spreading from where Adrian's lips touched his skin. 

"It smells like mortality," he sighed. "Like humanity, and sunlight and vitality and _everything_ that is forbidden to me." His fingers crept up Trevor's chest, catching on the edge of his cloak and pushing it off his shoulders. It fell in folds at his feet, bunching around his boots. He fought down a shiver as the cold leached to his skin, goosebumps breaking out on his arms. "And that is exactly what makes me want it more."

His breath hitched. Adrian wanted to drink his blood? The thought should have disgusted him, but instead it made his heart race and his skin crawl with something almost like anticipation. It was too much—his lips and his fangs and his breath on Trevor's skin. It made his whole body prickle pleasantly, and he could feel his own heart beating in his chest. He'd never been so aware of another person before; to be so conscious of their touch, the look in their eyes, even the way they _smelled_ —

"Trevor," Adrian breathed, lifting his head, eyes shimmering. "I think... I think I'm going to kiss you now."

His heart skipped a few beats as if he'd missed a step while walking down the stairs, a heavy jolt in his chest. He felt his breath catch in his throat as Adrian leaned closer, lashes fluttering, his lips parting. _Oh my God_ , Trevor thought. _This is really happening._

He closed his eyes as Adrian's lips brushed against his, so lightly that it felt like the brush of a feather. He moved closer, and his breath fanned out on Trevor's mouth, a startled puff of air. Then he leaned in again, and this time it was more firm, more sure. Their lips slotted together carefully, and so did their bodies, lining up perfectly. His hands fit to the curve of his waist, the bend of his shoulder, while Adrian's fingers cupped the back of his neck, the other settling flat on his chest, directly above his heart. 

A soft explosion went off in his head, and he was so aware of how soft Adrian's lips were against his, the way he tasted like cheap beer and cold wind and burned sugar, the way his knee slid in between his legs to pin him against the wall more firmly. For a few minutes they weren't the only son of the Belmont family and the son of Dracula, working to find out what was murdering the people—for a few minutes they were just two boys, drunk and infatuated with each other, kissing in an alleyway behind the bar. They could've been anyone. 

Adrian pulled away, his lips as flushed as his cheeks, breathing hard. He swallowed, and they just stared at each other for a few seconds, neither of them knowing what to say. Finally Trevor broke the silence. 

"I've sort of wanted to do that for a while," he said, and his voice still sounded slightly slurred. Adrian's lips kicked up into a grin, leaning in, fingers curling around Trevor's shoulder. "Me too," he said. 

They'd only just started kissing again when a voice echoed up the alleyway, breaking the silence. "Who's there?" it called, and Adrian yanked himself away, eyes wide. There was a clatter, one that echoed in the alley, distorted and pulsating. He heard footsteps, coming closer, and Adrian stepped away from Trevor, just far enough to grab his hand. "Run?" he whispered, and Trevor nodded.

"Run," he hissed back, and so they did.


	8. Wheels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Wheels:** _Peace, end of conflict and the beginning of something new._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's pretty early, so yay! But it's just as long as the last one, I just can't seem to be able to cut down on these. Also it was SO fun to write, so I hope everyone enjoys!! Feedback is coveted and treasured. :)

**_Adrian_ **

Sunlight stabbed into his eyes, forcing them open. He winced, throwing an arm over his face to avoid it, feeling his head throb with every beat of his heart, sending a steady pulse of pain through his skull.

He winced, slowly removing his arm from his face, squinting into the air, wincing and putting a hand to his head as he did. He had never had such a terrible hangover before, nor had he known he could feel the effects of one the way a human would—although he suspected that since he had drunk an exceptional amount the previous night, he would be exempted from that rule temporarily. 

He frowned, squeezing his eyes shut again, stretching with a plentiful sigh, feeling the aching muscles in his back and shoulders relax blissfully as he did. He thought idly back to what happened the previous night, slowly placing his memories in order. He'd gone to the village, visited Sypha, talked to her for a few hours until her grandfather had politely shooed him away so she could rest; he'd wandered around for a bit before deciding to poke his head into the local inn, where he'd seen Trevor; he'd gotten drunk with Trevor and then gotten angry at Trevor and then... 

He froze mid-stretch, feeling his eyes widen. Everything smashed into his head with the force of a hurricane, everything that had happened, in excruciating detail. He remembered stalking out of the bar, aimlessly moving forward, and then how Trevor had caught up, apologized—and the little pout in his lips and the raw scent of blood from the cut on his finger had completely destroyed the rest of his self-control, which had already been wearing thin, and had been worn even thinner with all the drink. 

_Oh, God._ He covered his face with his hands, feeling his heart racing. They'd nearly been caught in the alleyway, and they'd both ran—and they'd made it about a hundred meters before they'd fetched up against the side of one of the abandoned houses, on a completely deserted road... where they had proceeded to spend most of the night. 

He dug his nails into his palms, biting his lip. _Oh God,_ he thought again. _I kissed Trevor Belmont—no, I_ made out _with Trevor Belmont in an alleyway last night. Oh my God._ He winced, squeezing his eyes shut. What did it mean? Did this mean that they were no longer just friends? What if it had just been a drunken spur-of-the-moment action that wasn't meant to have any sort of future repercussions? What if this ruined their friendship? Was it even a friendship anymore? 

He groaned, rolling over facedown onto his pillows. He knew he was overthinking, making things more complicated than they already were—and they were already plenty complicated. But he couldn't stop overthinking it, mulling over every second of what had happened and violently denying that he'd enjoyed every second of what had happened, and then feeling bad that he was violently denying having enjoyed every second of what had happened. 

It wasn't as if he didn't like Trevor. He did—more than he should have. But he also, disastrously enough, liked Sypha, just as much as he liked Trevor. And now he felt sort of bad for kissing Trevor last night, because he liked her just as much, and if somehow she got to know about what had happened and if that ruined his chance of having anything more with Sypha—

"Adrian?" His mother's voice rang out from just outside the door, and he heard a soft knock. "Are you awake?"

He was yanked from his brooding suddenly, and winced at the sudden movement as he looked up. "I'm up," he called back, still clutching his head. He heaved himself up onto his elbows, surveying the state of his room. His clothes were lying everywhere, and his sword and belt had been carelessly discarded by the fireplace. Had he even come in through his door? He squinted at the window, which was unlatched, a warm breeze rustling the curtains. He couldn't remember. 

He slid his legs out of bed, sighing. This was exactly why he hated getting drunk—the high was _not_ worth this horrible headache and the nausea that was churning in his stomach. He swallowed, wincing; his mouth felt like a scorpion had used it as a nest, and every single one of his teeth hurt. 

He made his way to the bathroom, and just as he pulled the door open an overwhelming wave of nausea crested over him, making the world tilt around him. He barely made it to the toilet before he retched, the alcohol in his body burning coming up as much as it had going down. His eyes watered as he coughed, shuddering, heaving again. Once it was over he slumped, closing his eyes and sighing. 

He finally stood on shaky legs, the air cool on his body, which was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He silently vowed never to drink like this again as he slouched to the sink, peering at his reflection in the mirror.

He didn't look as bad as he felt, which was a relief; his eyes were a little bloodshot end the shadows beneath them were a bit too prominent for his taste, but otherwise he didn't look too hungover. He blinked at himself wearily, then sighed and started gathering his hair up from his face, tying it up in a messy knot at the back of his head. He frowned as he did, noticing something his hair had hidden earlier—a series of almost-identical bruises that were peppered across his neck and upper chest, the indentations of what had obviously been teeth darkening them in places.

He winced, turning quickly away from the mirror. What an irony, for a half-vampire to bear the marks from the teeth of a human, and a vampire hunter at that. He sighed, moving over to the bathtub, filling it with ice-cold water and submerging himself in it, forcing himself to sit through the cold, which staved off any lingering dizziness and disorientation. He held his breath, feeling the cold of the water pressing onto his chest, making his skin contract, his blood rushing quicker through his veins. 

He sat up, his head and shoulders clearing the water. Immediately, the cold stung his skin, making goosebumps erupt across his skin. He shivered, feeling his hair dripping onto his shoulders, but he didn't move, merely sitting in the freezing water, still and calm. He tried to sort out his thoughts, staring down at the rippling water, unmoving. He tried as hard as he could not to let his thoughts stray towards what had happened, but it was as if they were a magnet to which his mind was irrevocably attracted to. 

Did he regret kissing Trevor? No, he didn't. He didn't think he could ever regret something like that, but if anyone got to know about it, then they were both done for. And God forbid Sypha should ever find out what had happened—she was the last person he wanted to have to explain himself to. 

He dunked his head back into the water, trying to evade the thoughts. He didn't know how it was possible to like two different people equally, at the exact same time. And the two people happened to hate each other, and were too different yet too similar for their own good. And now he'd kissed Trevor...

He sighed, laying his head on the edge of the tub. He was beginning to shiver now from the cold, but he persisted. He hated overthinking things, but he couldn't seem to stop doing it, even though it hurt more than it helped, like worrying at a broken tooth. He found himself wishing he could tell his mother everything, knowing that she would listen, that she would tell him what he needed to hear. 

He wanted to—but he knew he couldn't; he'd be risking everything he'd tried so hard to hide over the last few months, risking the sneaking away in the morning and revealing the sneaking away in the night. And he'd be risking Trevor as well, his own tryst with secrecy. 

He stood finally, shivering as the air hit his bare skin. He may not have been able to feel the cold as acutely as humans did, but it still made a bone-deep chill rise beneath his skin as he moved towards the door to get dressed. He hesitated again by the mirror, his eyes lingering on the bite marks all over his throat.

He felt blood rise to his face the longer his eyes stayed on them, his mind invariably taking him back to the previous night and brought fresh to his memory the feeling of hands moving roughly over clothed skin and warm breath on his neck and the scent of blood and arousal and alcohol that had made heat curl almost painfully inside him—

He looked away from the bruises quickly, leaving the bathroom and shutting the door behind him as he did, making sure the shirt he pulled on had a collar high enough to hide them.

* * *

Adrian had never been afraid of heights. 

It was something that had never bothered him, since he'd discovered that he could defy gravity as a child. The thought that he might fall had never even occurred to him, and moreover, even if he did, he wouldn't hit the ground—so why worry? 

His mother had never ceased to caution him as a child, warning him not to go too near the edge of the balcony, not to stray too close to the slanting shingles of the roof, not to climb on top of the towers and watch the clouds drift across the sky above him. He'd loved the open air, the feeling of the cold, clean air untouched by the smoke and steam and the smell of ordinary human life. Even if she knew nothing would happen to him, she would always warn him. 

He swung his legs presently, watching a spider as it scuttled down the rafter he was perched on, high above the council hall. He was nearly seventy feet above the ground, and the hall below was spread out beneath his feet like a checkerboard, alternating squares of black and white. 

He peered down, hearing the faint strains of conversation filtering from down below, just loud enough for him to hear them. He'd always sneak up here since he was small, shimmying onto one of the rafters and eavesdropping every time the vampire council met. Back then, it had been mainly for the pleasure of it, to know he was high above and somewhere they couldn't see nor hear him, and he wouldn't be caught. The mere knowledge that he wouldn't be was why he did it.

But as he had gotten older he had started to listen, to hold his breath so that he could hear better, to go completely still and sit in the shadows and listen and understand what exactly was going on down there. And once his father had started to talk about how Adrian was to come after him and one day be the one to lead all the vampires in the council, he had payed even more attention. 

Of course, his father never let him come and bear witness to what was going on, but he was always there anyway, just out of reach and earshot and sight. 

Once he had realized his father wanted him to sit in that throne one day and be the general of all the vampires in the world, he had immediately began taking mental notes about each and every one of the generals, making new ones every meeting. He had their mannerisms, their thought processes, their personalities and tendencies and strategies completely memorized now, and as he gazed down, he ran through the list in his mind afresh.

There was Dragoslav, the one who tended to go for more deceitful tactics usually—he preferred to strike from somewhere nobody would see them, or manipulate someone else into doing their dirty work for them, and let them take the fall for it. Adrian had found himself nodding along more often than not, even if some of his strategies leaned towards something that almost resembled cheating. 

Then there was Zufall, who went for brute strength and brawl over brain, which worked, but only rarely. His contributions were more along the lines of almost guerrilla techniques, which Adrian never usually agreed with. He spoke with such a heavy German accent that sometimes Adrian couldn't make head nor tail of what he was saying—and he'd habitually pause in the middle of a sentence, hold up two fingers and cast around for the right words, then give up and slide seamlessly into German, which Adrian, of course, understood. Turns of phrase unique only to that language, certain analogies and comparisons. 

There was Cho, who spoke in a soft, lilting voice that nevertheless carried all across the room. As opposed to her doll-like looks and demeanor, her strategies were the most ruthless, the most unforgiving. She encouraged trapping the enemy, making sure they were in a position where they couldn't get away, then slaughtering them all. Adrian didn't always agree with her cruel methods, but occasionally she would come up with the most peace-oriented strategies that went completely against her usual ideologies. He never could predict which solution she would give. 

Perhaps the most overtly conspicuous vampire of all was Godbrand, who Adrian had never really liked, particularly because of his diverging thought process. Sometimes he wanted wanton destruction and plagues and mass murder, sometimes he wanted neat, organized battle and minimal bloodshed. He was generally louder and more outspoken than the others, but he had never seen Godbrand say a word against his father. Not once. 

Then there was Raman—who Adrian admitted to having a bit of a crush on ever since he was a little boy, having been completely enthralled by how beautiful she was, what with her deep brown skin and the way her blue silk sari fell around her long, willowy body in elegant folds. Her voice was exotic and rich, with her clipped, cultured accent that made her roll her _r_ 's and flatten her _t_ 's. Her tactics revolved more around perfect formations, seamless coordination and flawless battle lines. He had found her opinions to be the most logical more often than not, a good blend of merciful and bloodthirsty. 

Her constant companion, Sharma, was more inclined towards trickery and luring the enemy, more willing to sweet-talking them into trust and then stabbing them in the back. Adrian never agreed him with him but for one time, which had been a memorable session. He was clever, deviously so, and deadly tricky. He had never truly gotten the hang of how Sharma thought, which made him a bit uneasy even now. 

And perhaps the most dangerous member of the council, Carmilla, was one whom Adrian had never liked, and knew he would never like. She was clever and slippery and completely impossible to predict. He thought he had a grip on her character, and then the next time he saw her she would go in a completely different direction, and the same would happen for the next meeting, and the next, and the next. She often disagreed with his father, and got on his nerves more often than not. She was thrice as clever as everyone in the hall, and six times as cruel. 

"The people are getting restless," he could hear Raman saying, gesturing. The four-inch gleaming talons that capped her fingers and were sharpened to deadly perfection, caught the light and sparked in a flash of silver. "They are beginning to retaliate, and some villagers even got past our borders not a week past."

"What do they want?" asked Carmilla, putting her hands on her hips. He caught Godbrand eyeing her with a lustful gaze, his eyes lingering on the slit in her dress and the curve of her hips. He rolled his eyes inwardly—Godbrand had always wanted Carmilla, but she'd never spared him even a glance, unless it was to sneer at him or look down her nose. It always amused him greatly that there was drama even in a War Council full of vampires—it seemed that vampires weren't nearly as inhuman as they liked to think. 

"Their superstition grows," Sharma replied, and Adrian sighed, leaning back on his hands and swinging his legs more vigorously. It was the same problem most days—the people were apparently becoming increasingly more and more cautious and afraid, and their caution and fear was translating itself into superstition and orthodoxy that hurt much more than it helped. 

"It is a bad year for rain," Sharma went on. "Their crops grow and then die, and they believe our presence disrupts their subsistence."

"They paint religious symbols on our walls and ward us away with prayers and priests," Raman continued. "They scatter holy items on our doorstep and flood our grounds with holy water."

"Deal with them as you always do," Zufall said, scowling. "Have you never faced the wrath of deluded humans who have God on their side?"

"The gods," Sharma said, his voice clipped and curt, "are on no one's side." Adrian noted his plural use of the word _god_ with interest. "Their belief leads them to wish to harm us."

Adrian braced an elbow on the wood of the rafter, resting his chin on his hand as he listened to the bickering voices of the council. He gazed up at the dark, shadowy ceiling, again watching the spider scuttle down the beam, swinging on its gauzy thread like an acrobat. The voices in the hall went in and out of focus as his concentration slipped, boredom creeping into his mind. 

Until he heard a cold, high voice say, "And what of your son, my lord?"

He sat up straight, nearly losing balance and falling over. He righted himself instantly, the wood of the beam creaking. Thankfully, nobody seemed to have noticed. He peered down, fingers gripping the wood as he leaned down. 

"What of him, Carmilla?" An edge had crept into Dracula's voice, one that usually appeared whenever he was running out of patience. 

"I merely suddenly remembered something you told me once before—that you intended for him to... lead us, after you decide you wish to step down." He couldn't see her face from all the way up where he was, but he would bet a good amount of money that she had that infuriating smirk on her face that drove his father mad. 

He was right—even from seventy feet in the air, he could see his father's jaw clench. "Yes, so I did," he said, but his voice was smooth, charming, polite. "What of it?"

"I simply wondered whether he is suitable for such a demanding task," she said, taking a few steps forward, her heels clacking on the tiles. "I feel he may be ever so slightly... inept."

Adrian seethed silently, even though she was probably right. His father appeared to be thinking along the same lines. "In this regard I feel you may be alone in thinking so, Carmilla. My son will make a fine general."

"Perhaps." She tossed her mane of silver hair over one shoulder. "But we may never truly know where his loyalties lie, my lord—is he not, after all, half-human? Do all of his interests lie in our world, or theirs?"

"Our world and theirs are one and the same," Dracula said calmly. "Do we not share a world with humans?"

"We do," she allowed. "But I find their minds to be increasingly fickle and treacherous—and what with your son's... humanity, if I may—it might hinder our presence in this situation."

"What are you insinuating, Carmilla?" The edge in his voice had sharpened. 

"Nothing, my lord." Her voice dripped honey. "Only that perhaps you might want to rethink your first choice of who you will eventually leave all of the vampire generals answering to. A dhampir fledgling might not be many's first choice of leader."

Adrian winced, leaning back again. He knew that this would resurface eventually, this age-old argument about whether he was enough of a vampire to lead them all, whether there was too much of his mother's blood in him for that to happen. A part of him knew that she was right, that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't be who his father wanted him to be. His father had never thought that, though that was probably because he had never told him about his doubts. 

"Is that so?" The edge in his father's voice grew colder and sharper, like an arrow made of ice. "Does anybody else have a problem with my son leading our forces besides Carmilla?"

There was silence. 

"Nobody?" He glanced at Carmilla, who, as Adrian could see even from so far away, had her fists clenched—the only sign of her anger. She was deliberately relaxed, standing casually enough to suggest indifference. "It seems you are the only one with these concerns," he said coldly, and Adrian saw her give a short bow before taking a step back, lowering her head in a clear gesture of submission. 

He had a feeling she wasn't done, though—she would probably seek him out later with a sneer on her face, and he knew she could see right through him, that she knew he didn't want what his father wanted. But he had to admit he would rather spend the rest of eternity leading the vampire generals of the world than give the position to Carmilla. 

He'd heard enough. He didn't want to sit there a minute longer listening to them discussing his fate, his future. He swung his legs up, standing soundlessly, still peering down in case someone looked up. Once he was sure nobody would, he leaped to the next rafter, then the next, his feet barely touching the wood. 

He grabbed hold of the wall as he jumped onto the last rafter, then slid the trapdoor in the wall open, shutting it softly behind him. He stood in the musty darkness for a few seconds, worry churning in his stomach—which was further aided by the smell of dust and bat droppings in the stairwell. He tried not to breathe too deeply, still lost in thought. 

There was too much to worry about, too much on his mind. There was the threat of what was killing the people in the village, the pressure of his father's expectations at home, his attraction to Trevor—which he'd given in to—and his equal attraction to Sypha... 

He moved wearily down the stairs, wincing every time he heard one creak—which was often. Finally reaching the bottom mainly by habit since he could see nothing in the darkness, he fumbled for the latch and yanked the door open, blinking in the sudden light that stabbed into his eyes. They adjusted slowly, finally allowing him to see the hallway beyond—and the frowning face of his mother, who was standing right in front of him with her arms crossed and a brow raised. 

"Adrian Tepes," she said, "you have a lot of explaining to do."

* * *

He slid down the wall carefully, fingers lingering on the stone as he squinted into the night, seeking any movement. He glanced up at the window of his bedroom almost fifty feet above, watching the curtains ripple in the wind. Once he was certain that he had escaped undetected he turned towards the forest, his hand falling away from the wall. 

He strode towards the trees, so briskly he was nearly running. He was late—it was almost an hour and a half after midnight, and the dark was as thick as ink as he moved into the cover of the forest, glancing back but once to see whether he was being followed or not. Once he was sure he wasn't, he broke into a sprint, dodging the trees that sprang up in his path as he moved, too fast for the eye to see. 

Within minutes he broke out of the forest, skidding to a halt just shy of the line of trees that began it. He was out of breath, which was a feat—it usually took the kind of exertion that would probably kill a regular person to steal his breath. He looked back at the looming trees, panting. He'd run perhaps twelve miles in about six minutes, which he supposed was record time. 

He headed wearily towards the village, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants as he did. _I'm not nervous,_ he told himself, nervously. _I'm not._ It wasn't as if anything was different after last night, was it? But he found himself worrying anyway—what if things were awkward between them after this? Did this mean Trevor was his _boyfriend_ now? 

He spotted the Speaker caravan on the same desolate road, the single light on inside, chasing the thoughts that were beginning to crowd his mind almost overwhelmingly. He took a step towards it, but just imagining telling Sypha about what was on his mind made guilt writhe in his stomach like a pit of vipers. He turned away almost blindly, moving instead towards the inn again, hardly looking where he was going. 

A single glance inside the inn told him Trevor wasn't there. He knew that he'd have spotted him immediately; somehow even in a crowd of a thousand, he leaped out at Adrian's eyes like a spotlight. He moved away from the inn, wondering whether he had even arrived at the village yet. Maybe he wouldn't show up at all after what had happened the previous night. Maybe he was avoiding Adrian, or he didn't want to see him. Maybe—

"I guess vampires can get hangovers, after all."

He jumped, spinning around, coming face-to-face with a smirking Trevor Belmont. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes immediately dropped to his lips—the lips he'd kissed last night—

"What?"

"You look like shit." He waved at Adrian's general appearance. "I'm guessing you didn't exactly wake up all fresh as a daisy."

"No." He eyed him warily. What should he do? Be explicit? Be subtle? Not mention it at all? Was that what he was supposed to do? "I must admit to never having drunk that much before, actually. Usually I've got quite the tolerance for alcohol."

"Yeah, me neither," he said, an unreadably bland expression on his face. This was confusing Adrian more and more by the second. "The last thing I remember is talking to you about ten minutes after you showed up. How the hell did I even get home?" He laughed and shook his head, and Adrian stared at him, his racing thoughts all coming to a screeching halt. 

"Wait," he said. "You don't... you don't remember _anything?"_

"Zip." He shrugged, Adrian still gaping at him. "I guess it's probably for the best, seeing as I've never been that smashed in my whole life." He squinted at Adrian, who was still gaping. "Why? Did I do something seriously embarrassing?"

He shut his mouth with a snap. "Er... I mean, you..."

He frowned. "It can't be that bad. Come on, what did I do?"

Adrian made a split-second decision. "Nothing. I was just surprised you forgot so much. We were here nearly till dawn, so..."

"Huh." He appeared convinced, apparently oblivious to Adrian's turmoil. "Well, at least I made it home and didn't pass out in a ditch somewhere or something."

"I... yes, I suppose." He blinked, still totally caught off guard. He didn't remember—the best hour and a half of Adrian's life, arguably—and Trevor didn't remember a second of it. Whether the tragic phenomenon that was Trevor Belmont's memory when drunk was a blessing or a curse, for the life of him Adrian couldn't decide. 

"But I _do_ remember you saying something about how you wanted to tell me something important," Trevor went on cheerfully. "What was it?"

Adrian shook off the disappointment and relief that had been mixing disagreeably in his stomach and nodded, forcing himself to focus on the task ahead and not what Trevor had just told him. "Well, Sypha and I had gone to the library a few days ago, and we were looking through the history books." He eyed Trevor carefully when he mentioned Sypha, but there was nothing but the slightest of grimaces. What on earth was going on?

"We discovered that these attacks had happened before," he said, moving towards the forest. Trevor fell into step beside him, almost comfortably. "But this was a long time ago, almost sixty years ago."

"The same thing? Hearts ripped out, missing, everything?"

"Down to the age of the victims," Adrian said. "Everything was the same. There were ten boys who died that year, all in a month. And the strange thing is, that was the very first supernatural attack on this village since your family decided to oblige the Church and put their weapons away."

Trevor frowned. "You mean my family stopped fighting, and the same year this attack happened?"

"The same year?" Adrian let out a derisive little laugh. "Trevor, it happened the _day after_ your family stopped fighting."

There was a silence. "So you think this whole thing has something to do with my family," Trevor said finally, a minute later. "You think they're connected."

"It's too big of a coincidence to ignore," Adrian said. "And moreover, we dug around a little more, and we found out what it is, more or less."

"Well?" His brows furrowed. 

"Well, the library here isn't too well-stocked," Adrian admitted. "It was in a children's storybook, dated about seventy years ago. It said something about the dancing woman who steals the hearts of young men who are entranced by her beauty. If they strayed too close to her and laid even a finger on her, she would take their hearts and send them home." 

He waved a hand. "Of course, they made it sound whimsical and innocent, seeing as it was a children's book—but it's the same, isn't it? She takes their hearts, then sends their bodies back."

"But what is she? A ghost?" Trevor looked mildly horrified by it all. "A spirit or something? Maybe a revenant?"

"I have no idea." He shrugged. "It didn't say. The books in the library aren't too keen on the supernatural, though." He glanced sideways at Trevor. "There was a bit of an illustration as well, I... I thought perhaps it would be best if you were to see it."

"Oh." He looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Now?"

"No, not now, if you don't wish it." He put a cautious hand on Trevor's arm, feeling his own pulse spike at the contact. God, he was an absolute mess. "Sypha borrowed the book, so she's got it at the caravan. I'll bring it tomorrow, or whenever you want to see it."

"Okay." It wasn't lost on Adrian how he leaned into the touch, his lower lip snagging on his teeth. Unbidden his voice echoed in Adrian's ear, breathless and slurred, saying, _I've sort of wanted to do that for a while..._

"So now what?" he asked, and Adrian started, his hand falling away from Trevor's arm. "I wanted to check out the place you and Sypha ran into her," Adrian said, straightening. "There may be something you missed last time."

"It's always the same place," Trevor said as they both headed for the woods. "It's always that one place where the trees make that gap and let in the light. It's never anywhere else; I only see her there, and last time it was the same place too."

"Odd." He frowned, glancing at the Speaker caravan as they passed it. The light had gone off, and it was still and silent. Sypha was presumably asleep inside, and he told himself it was a good thing, that she was resting and that she wasn't there with Trevor as well. He didn't think he'd be able to handle both of them cold-shouldering each other. 

"You think the place has something significant to do with her?" he asked, and Trevor shrugged. "No idea. I don't even know what she is." He frowned. "I've got good money on some sort of spirit, though."

"I thought you said last time that it couldn't be a malevolent spirit," Adrian said, and Trevor's frown deepened, a hand coming up to tug at a stray lock of inky hair. "I don't know—usually malevolent spirits leave lots of traces, like sulfur or ectoplasm or whatever, and everyone can see them. But this is just weird."

They entered the cover of the forest, and Adrian noticed the way Trevor stiffened slightly, the faint hesitation in his steps. Of course—the last time he'd come here, he'd been reminded of the grotesque way this thing was connected to him somehow. He moved an inch or so closer, shifting to the side ever so slightly. The movement made the backs of their fingers brush just barely, but the contact made the all the nerve endings in the surrounding area fire up. 

Trevor didn't move away, and Adrian took that as a good sign, feeling more than a little relief. They walked in a sort of companionable silence, the only sound being the crunching of leaves underfoot as they traversed through the undergrowth. He could hear the soft hooting of owls and the chirps of the crickets as they walked, the din of a forest that was always alive, never asleep. 

"There," said Trevor after about twenty minutes of silent walking, coming to a sudden and abrupt halt. He grabbed Adrian's sleeve, stopping him. He peered into the thick blanket of darkness the trees enfolded them in, making out a pinprick of light in the distance. It winked out at him, tempting him to go closer. 

"What?" he asked softly, looking over at Trevor, whose eyes were narrowed. "Something's wrong," he whispered, his other hand slowly drawing his whip. "Something's definitely wrong—"

"What?" he hissed again, turning fully to face the hunter. His eyes were moving rapidly around in front of him, his lips parted. "We have to go closer," he said. _"Now."_

Adrian hesitated. "Are you sure? What if something—"

"Come on." Without waiting for Adrian to finish his sentence Trevor grabbed his hand, pulling him along forcefully as he moved nearer and nearer to the single stripe of light in the complete darkness around them. Adrian let him, bewildered, but saying nothing. If he had seen something that Adrian couldn't, then maybe that meant that they would find something here that could possibly tell them exactly what this thing was. 

Trevor stopped just shy of the light, his breath catching. Adrian could feel the magic in the air, the pulsating aura of it everywhere. His head spun from the force of it, the suddenness with which he was thrust into its sphere. It felt like there was champagne in his veins instead of blood, champagne that fizzled and bubbled and sparked. 

"Can you feel anything?" Trevor whispered, and Adrian nodded, feeling his skin prickling. "There's so much magic," he heard himself say. "It's—almost overwhelming."

Trevor glanced at him, then started, peering into Adrian's face, alarm spreading across his features. "Adrian, your eyes," he said, and his voice was uncertain, with an edge of something almost like panic like a razor sharpening his words. 

"What about them?" He blinked at him, confused, and Trevor's brows furrowed. "They're sort of... glowing."

 _"What?"_ He stared at Trevor, who stared back, equally confused. "Glowing? Glowing how?" He put a hand up to his eyes, frowning. 

"What do you mean _glowing how_ , they're just fucking glowing." Trevor rolled his eyes. "Like lamps or something." He paused. "You think it's because of the magic?"

"Maybe. Probably. It's really strong. More powerful than anything I've felt in a while. The only thing that comes close to how strong this is..." He trailed off, feeling a worried frown tug at his lips.

Trevor raised his eyebrows. "Well? What?"

"My father's magic," he concluded hesitantly. "And he's thousands of years old."

"Shit," breathed Trevor, and Adrian found himself in agreement. "So this thing is as powerful as your dad?"

"Maybe even more powerful than him."

"Shit," he said again.

"You already said that," Adrian pointed out. 

"Well, it was worth repeating." He moved forward, lifting a hand into the beam of moonlight so that his skin was bathed in silver. Then he froze, his whole body going rigid. His eyes snapped up, catching and focusing on something in front of him, in the bushes. He lowered his hand, his fingers curling into a fist. "She's here," he breathed.

Adrian was about to open his mouth to ask where when the bushes rustled, making his words die on his lips. The leaves parted, and a single figure stepped out into the beam of light, directly below the gap in the trees above. And for the first time, Adrian laid eyes on the monster. 

She was petite, tiny almost, about two heads shorter than him and Trevor, though clearly not a child—she had the body of a grown woman, with voluptuous hips and full breasts and a long, slender neck. Her figure was covered in a tattered white shift, with a ragged hole in the left shoulder. Long, thick black hair spilled down till her waist, and her feet were bare. 

But try as he might, he couldn't look at her face. Something about what he saw his mind couldn't process, and it blurred and shimmered and shifted like a mirage. All he could see were her wide, large blue eyes, eerily familiar and bright. Something about them made him feel both unnerved and relieved, almost relaxed. It was unsettling. 

She took another step closer, the moonlight falling all around her like silver rain. Her terrible, beautiful eyes moved between them before finally alighting on Trevor, where they rested. He started at what he saw there—they were full of hate, as if he had hurt her terribly somehow, and she would never forgive him for it. Following her gaze, he saw that she wasn't looking at his face, not directly—her baleful eyes were trained on the gold family crest on his chest, the symbol of the Belmont family. 

Her eyes skipped to Adrian, bearing into his with such intensity that it made his head throb with a raw pulse of energy and magic. As she looked at him, it occurred to him suddenly why her eyes were so familiar, so disturbingly recognizable. They were the same eyes he had spent weeks dreaming of, the eyes that had been so close to his last night, the eyes that were right beside him. 

Just as the thought passed through his mind she lifted a skeletal hand, and Adrian was lifted off his feet, a gasp escaping his lips as he was flung backwards as if he weighed no more than a feather. He flew backwards, then felt the wind knocked out of him as his back slammed into a tree, hard. He heard a sickening _crack_ , and white-hot pain shot through him as he slid to the ground, gasping. 

Through ears ringing with pain he heard Trevor shout his name, heard the panic painting itself into his voice, which smeared into a distorted echo as his head spun alarmingly. Pain made him dizzy, but already he could feel himself healing, his body regenerating instantly. He could tell he'd broken four vertebrae, which knitted themselves back together even as he felt them break.

He stood shakily, wincing, and looked up just in time to see her grotesquely long fingers reach for Trevor, wrapping around his throat and lifting him clean off his feet. He struggled, fingers clawing at his throat, choking and cursing as her hand tightened around his neck, constricting his windpipe. 

Adrian lurched forward, drawing his sword as he stumbled towards them, panic erupting in his chest. He let go of the blade, feeling it hover beside him, willing it to slice through the air towards her as he ran. She turned towards the sword as it spun directly at her, and then he could have sworn he heard her laugh as she casually lifted her hand, freeing Trevor as she did, and caught the blade in midair. 

He stopped in his tracks, feeling his panic heighten as she flung the sword away, her fingers dripping black blood. Trevor stumbled backwards, and then a tongue of black snaked through the air, striking her across the chest. There was a burning sizzle as the consecrated leather of the whip touched her skin, and she hissed angrily, moving back. Trevor seized the distraction, sweeping the whip forward again and again, opening her graying, leathery skin with each crack of the leather. 

He lifted his arm to strike again, but this time she was ready; she raised her forearm, the whip's coils wrapping around it as Trevor struck. She yanked hard, and he stumbled, his fingers freeing the handle as she flung it away just as she had thrown Adrian's blade into the shadows of the trees. 

He fumbled out his short sword as she advanced, but he wasn't fast enough this time; she reached out with a casual, terrifying ease, and swept the blade out of his hands, rendering him completely defenseless. He stumbled backwards, his arms half-raised, his face set in a rictus snarl. 

Adrian reached them, willing his nails to sharpen and elongate into serrated claws, sweeping his arm upward and slicing her shoulder open. Black blood gushed from the wound, but she didn't seem bothered by it—she merely turned towards him, her eyes gleaming with amusement. 

"So resilient," she said, her voice almost a croon. "So determined. But even you will one day run out of strength, Adrian Tepes. Even the mightiest one day fall." 

She blinked once, and he felt his body go rigid and stock-still, his muscled forcibly relaxing and his arms falling uselessly to his sides. He felt pain shoot across his fingers as his claws were forcibly retracted, digging into his skin. He tried to move, to step in front of Trevor, to protect him from this monster of a woman who he knew would kill him—but his body wouldn't obey him, refusing to move at his command. 

She laughed again, and then she stepped back, spreading her arms wide. "You want to go to him?" she asked, her eyes glinting cruelly. "Then go." 

He spun around, fighting the magic that was corrupting his mind as he did, his legs carrying him towards Trevor. He dug his heels into the ground, tears gathering in his eyes as he fought harder than he ever had in his life. He stumbled, briefly overtaking the force in his head—but a moment later it rammed into him again, thrice as powerfully, and he cried out, pain spearing into his head. 

_Go to him,_ her voice whispered in his head, snaking through his mind. _Go to him._

He took another step forward, then another, then another, until he was standing directly in front of Trevor, who was shaking his head, eyes wide. "No, not again," he said, his voice cracking. "Not again—"

 _Rip him open,_ she whispered. _Give me his heart._

His arms lifted themselves, trembling with his efforts to stop it, his nails growing again into claws. He curled his hands into fists, grappling with the force in his mind, feeling his own claws tear into his skin. Blood dripped down his wrist, staining the grass underfoot crimson. Still his legs moved forward, and he felt another sting on his lower lip as his fangs extended fully, slicing through his skin. 

His fingers unclenched, and a bolt of pain shot though his skull as his hand shot forward, his claws slicing across Trevor's face. He heard a hiss of pain, and blood cascaded in ribbons from his hand. There was a line of blood on Trevor's cheek, and he barely had time to wipe it away before Adrian struck again. But this time he seemed ready; he lifted an arm, and Adrian's blow struck his forearm. He stumbled back, eyes wide. 

"Adrian, stop it, listen to me!" Trevor was shouting, moving steadily backwards every time Adrian moved forward. "You have to fight it! You have to—"

His next blow glanced off Trevor's shoulder, leaving a cut several inches deep. He could hear laughter as he fought it, desperately, but he was too weak. He swiped again, and Trevor dodged, an arm reaching up and grabbing Adrian's, his fingers encircling his wrist tight enough to bruise. 

"Goddammit, Adrian, I don't want to do this," he growled, and then he swung, punching him hard in the jaw. He went sprawling, unprepared for the sudden attack, feeling a dull ache spread up his face. 

_Get up,_ she hissed in his mind. _Get up._

He moved automatically to his knees, his hands digging into the ground to stop himself from standing fully. _No,_ he thought. _No, I won't._

_Get up get up get up—_

He dug his nails harder into the ground, feeling them tear from their beds, feeling blood mix with the dirt. He grit his teeth, breathing hard. _No._

_GET UP GET UP GET UP—_

_"No!"_ he roared, and then he stood, clenching a bleeding fist. His sword shot out of the shadows and into his waiting fingers and he swept it up, driving it forward directly into her chest, where her heart should have been. 

She looked down at it dispassionately, at the blade that he'd driven through her heart, at his bleeding hands that clutched it. One of her hands came up, wrapping around the blade where it protruded from her ribs, and she yanked it forward. He was pulled towards her, gasping as the hilt slammed up against her body, and suddenly they were face-to-face, her eyes glaring into his. 

"You think you can kill me with a mortal weapon?" she hissed. "I am not from this world, fledgling. No weapon in this world can kill me." 

And then she flung him. 

He hit the ground, and he curled up to absorb the impact, rolling effortlessly to his knees. He made to get up, but he felt something take hold of him, keeping him in place. He could control his own body, and there was nothing in his mind, but he couldn't move. _No!_ he thought furiously, and he struggled against his invisible bonds, straining silently. 

She slowly pulled the blade from her body, throwing it to the side. It was smeared with blood as black as ink, dripping off the silver edge. She moved again towards Trevor, who raised his hands as if in self-defense. Something sharp and silver flashed in his fingers and then a throwing knife bloomed in his grip, so suddenly it was as if he had conjured it from thin air. His wrist snapped forward and it embedded itself into her throat, directly on the vein. 

Black blood spurted, but still she advanced, even as another knife lodged in her chest, and another across her eye. She knocked the last one out of his grip, then calmly reached out and struck him across the face. 

His head snapped to the side, and blood flew from his mouth from the force of the blow, which had him stumbling backwards. "Insolent child," she hissed. "Don't you know better than to disobey your elders?" 

She took another step forward, and Adrian struggled harder, but the bonds were too tight. She grabbed Trevor's jaw, forcing him to look directly at her. He spat and cursed, but she paid him no heed as she glared directly into his eyes—the same as hers—and said clearly, "Now give me your heart, Trevor Belmont."

He went slack suddenly in her grip, his eyes dulling and his hands falling to his sides. Adrian thrashed with more vigor, but his struggles went unnoticed as she slowly released Trevor, who stumbled before righting himself, a blank expression on his face. 

"Tear yourself open and give it to me," she said, and Adrian could have sworn that she looked directly at him as she said it. "And I will send you home."

Trevor raised his hands to his own breast—and then the forest exploded. 

Fire in a raging, churning inferno was roiling through the air, blazing in the trees, catching in the bushes and sending heat and smoke pouring into the air. It wasn't a normal fire—this was gold and scarlet, tipped with orange and licking through the forest with an unnatural efficiency and speed. 

The force of it sent the woman reeling backwards, an unearthly screech erupting from her throat as she threw a hand up to shield her eyes from the ire of the flames. The suddenness of it freed Trevor, who stumbled, his back hitting a tree and his chest heaving with exertion. He slid to his knees, gasping.

The flames parted like a curtain and a single figure stepped out of it, a hand held up to control the fire that was raging all around them. Hard, turquoise-blue eyes fixated on the woman, who was still cringing away from the heat and fire all around them. She was wailing and screaming, a horrible, rending cacophony of misery. 

"Get out," Sypha said, her voice cold and entirely unforgiving. "Let them go and get out."

She let out one last ghastly wail before dissolving, her body crumbling away into dead leaves that scattered in the hot, dry wind that blew through the forest. The echoes of her scream rang in Adrian's ears, ringing and harsh. He felt the grip that held his body vanish, and he slumped backwards, breathing hard, all the energy draining out of him. 

The fire died slowly, until there was nothing left but Sypha, her face still set in forbidding, hard lines, her expression harsh and emotionless. The sketch he'd drawn of her flashed suddenly before his eyes—the blank, cruel look on her face and the magic that wreathed her body—and he felt nausea clutch at his stomach. 

She strode right past him and up to Trevor, who was on his knees a few feet away, gasping. He was looking up at her, and there was no hostility on his face—only a sort of awe and gratitude and fear that spoke far louder than any amount of words could ever hope to. She held out a hand, and he took it, standing wearily. 

"You... you saved my life," was all he said, and he sounded equal parts confused and thankful and astonished. 

"No more impersonal favors," she said, her face softening. "From now on, when we save each other's lives, we do it for each other."

His lips flicked up into a smile, and something in his eyes seemed to give way, to become lighter, a burden easier to bear. "I can live with that," he said. 

They shook hands, and Adrian smiled to himself, wondering if maybe everything would work out after all. Less probable things had happened that made him believe that they could actually find out who the woman was and finally kill her—and Trevor and Sypha finally becoming friends might just be one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's clear from my knowledge of spirits and dark creatures that I watch Supernatural. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	9. Water Streams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Water Streams:** _The pass of time, defense against persecution, the development of character._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, just a little heads-up—this is going to be the last update in a while. I'm going to the UK this week, and then I'm coming back late this month, after which I'm busy with schoolwork until the start of next month. So that means the next update might be in early or mid-June. 
> 
> Hope you like this chapter, and feedback is welcomed. :)

**_Trevor_ **

It was warm in the inn, stiflingly so. It was completely empty as well, what with the lateness of the hour, and the three of them were the only ones inside. The bartender was dozing with his chin propped on his hand, snoring softly—which was good, since that way they wouldn't be overheard—and the lights overhead were dim and flickering. 

The rush of adrenaline and fear that had kept him going for the last few hours had worn off, and he was tired, all the way down to his bones. The cuts and bruises on his face were beginning to sting in earnest, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache at the base of his skull, a dull but uncomfortable pain. 

He was squeezed in between Adrian and Sypha, which he found to his own surprise that he didn't mind at all. It made him feel safer, and slightly less alone; he remembered that one fleeting, panicked second when Adrian had attacked him, his eyes flashing red and his fangs fully extended and his hands bent into claws—he'd thought he'd lost him, that he wouldn't come back. He hadn't ever felt more alone than he had in that one second. 

And then Sypha had set the whole world on fire, or so it had seemed in those few minutes, when everything around him had turned red and gold, and heat and smoke were surrounding him, and he'd felt the spell break. He'd thought he was dead and she was an angel, an avenging angel clothed in fire and wreathed in magic. And then it had died and he'd seen her and he'd thought, _I'm alive because of her._ And it hadn't been bitter. 

"We know what she can do," Sypha was saying, tapping the wood of the table with a finger. "We know how powerful she is and what her strengths are, but we don't know exactly what she is."

"She isn't a ghost," Trevor said, sitting back. "She's too... solid, too real. She has too much power. No ghost can do what she did, even a really powerful one."

Adrian sighed. "One step forward and two steps back," he said. Which pretty much summed up everything quite well. "We need more information, something that solidifies everything we've seen and witnessed so far. There's nothing here that can do so, nor is there anything in my father's library." 

Sypha said something about asking her grandfather and seeing if they had anything in their memory stores about this, but he had stopped listening; he was beginning to think he'd held out on them for a bit too long now, that maybe he could let go of tradition for once if it meant it would save these people and help them find out more about the woman. 

"And we could ask some of the people if they've heard anything, or I could dig around in the library again tomorrow," Sypha was saying. "I'm sure we'll find something that can help—"

"You won't find anything there," Trevor interrupted, shaking his head. "You won't find anything anywhere—nobody in Wallachia has that sort of extensive knowledge about the supernatural. But I know who does."

"Well?" One of Sypha's coppery brows shot up. 

"There's a library," he said, lowering his voice so that he wouldn't be overheard, even if the bartender had ceased dozing and was properly asleep now. Adrian and Sypha both leaned closer to hear him better, their eyes wide. "The Belmont Hold—we haven't opened it for decades, but I've seen the door, and all the books that we're not allowed to keep about demons and monsters and creatures of the night are in there. Everything my family found, they stored there. All the weapons, the holy water and the whips and the consecrated stuff we used to kill them are stashed in there."

Adrian frowned at him. "Why didn't you mention this before? It's bound to be in there, we could've saved days of pointless research."

He shrugged, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "I didn't trust you enough before to say it," he said. "You're half-vampire, and everything we knew about disemboweling and dismembering the lot of you are in there. I don't think you'd have liked me much if I ever took you down there."

Adrian snorted, and he went on. "Plus, it's a super-secret thing. Just telling you about it is sacrilege or blasphemy or whatever, and it's underground and sealed and everything. If what we're looking for isn't down there, then it isn't anywhere."

Sypha looked lost in thought. "I've never heard of a Belmont Hold," she said musingly, frowning at him. "But it sounds like our best bet. So how do we get down there?"

"Whoa, hold up." He held up a hand. "You can't just waltz into my house and go in there. Nobody is allowed down there, not even me. If the Church finds out about it, then that's it. If they're in a good mood, they'll kill us all. We need to do this slowly. I need a few days to figure out how to get to the door without getting caught, and then there's opening the damn thing. I don't even know how to do it."

"So that's why there weren't many books in your library," Adrian said, leaning back with an amused look on his face. "They're all in the Hold."

Trevor shrugged. "My father would've thrown a fit if we had to burn all the books. He had all of them carted off underground, and now they're safe—gathering dust, but still safe. I'm sure we'll find _something_ in there."

"Because we still don't know exactly what she is," Adrian said, gazing pensively into middle distance. "We know what she can do, but we don't know how. Nor do we know how she came to be so. If we find out, it may be easier to stop her."

"If you know a creature's name, you know its weakness," Trevor said, remembering the way his mother used to bounce him on her lap and say those very words to him when he was only a few years old, how she used to tell him about the thrill of the hunt and the seraphic burn of holy water on your hands and the power that came with wielding the weapons of angels. 

He hadn't ever forgotten the words she said—the very words that had echoed in his ears the first time he crept out of his room on his fourteenth birthday and left the house and went into the woods for the very first time. He'd wanted to do what his forefathers had done, to do what his blood gave him the power to do. 

There was a long silence between the three of them, but it wasn't empty or uncomfortable, merely lulling and companionable almost. The only sound was the soft snores of the bartender, and the gentle ticking of the clock on the far wall. Finally Sypha broke it, heaving a deep sigh. "Well, until then, what do we do?"

"I know this sounds stupid and suicidal," Adrian said after a brief pause, "but I think we need to go back to the spot where we saw her—"

"Are you mad?" Trevor demanded. "We were nearly killed this time, and if we do go back, she'll be prepared for anything we've got."

"We have to," Adrian insisted. "We need to interact with her as much as we possibly can, to learn her strengths and weaknesses and the way she fights, the way she works. She has magic, very powerful magic, but we need to see what else she can do with it besides get into people's minds and control their bodies—"

"Because _that's_ not enough power to begin with," Sypha muttered.

"—and we need to find out more about her connection to you, Trevor." He frowned at Trevor, who looked away, glancing down instead at his hands on the table. "There's clearly something she wants from you, or something she has against you—"

"Or your family," Sypha finished. "I still think she's a Belmont herself, and—"

"I'd know if she was," Trevor cut in, still not looking at either of them. "She isn't in any of the old family trees or any of the archives I've read or looked at."

"And how would you know that?" Sypha asked fairly, crossing her arms. "You can't even see her face, and you forget how she looks every time you look away from her."

"I just know," he said stubbornly. "I've just... got this feeling she isn't who we think she is."

Adrian let out a measured breath. "How come none of us can see her face?" he asked. "Every time I tried, it was as if there was something that forced me to look away, or even if I didn't, all I could see was a sort of mirage. Nothing was clear, almost as if my mind didn't want to process what my eyes did see."

"Me too," Sypha said, nodding. "I hadn't seen her face before this, either—last time, all I saw were her eyes."

"Maybe it's a part of her magic too," Trevor said. "Maybe she doesn't want us to see her face."

"Why?" Adrian was chewing on his lower lip, the way he usually did when he was lost in thought. How he didn't accidentally slice himself open on one of his fangs was a conundrum. "Perhaps she thinks we'll discover her identity should we see her unmasked? Or maybe to see her true visage would mean we gain an advantage over her in some way."

"Or maybe she's just really fucking ugly and she doesn't want us to see her face," Trevor suggested, and Sypha swatted his shoulder at the exact same time that Adrian kicked him under the table. 

"Ow," he muttered.

"So anyway," Sypha said as Trevor rubbed his shoulder, "we should go back, I agree with Adrian—"

"That's the stupidest—" Trevor began. 

_"But,"_ Sypha continued, raising a brow at him, "we should be cautious. And prepared for her tricks and wiles. Which means that we have to somehow be able to resist her mind control and the way she gets into our heads. It's her greatest weapon, and it's what tears us all apart the easiest."

"How can we even train ourselves for that?" Trevor demanded. "It's not like we can just get something into our brains to control us for practice."

"I think... I think I may be able to help with that," Adrian said slowly, tapping a finger on the wood of the table with increasing speed. He exhaled, peeking over Trevor's shoulder to look at both him and Sypha as he spoke. 

"How?" Trevor frowned at him.

He cast his eyes downward. "There's a spell," he began hesitantly. "Not a spell exactly, more of an old, organic magic that exists in the blood of a vampire. It's not mind-reading, not really, it's more like we can experience secondhand emotion from humans, and we can use the power of our own minds to make other people obey what we say, using that secondhand emotion."

Trevor narrowed his eyes. "You mean a Glamour."

Adrian shrugged almost guiltily. "That's what the hunters call it."

"Glamour?" Sypha frowned, looking between Adrian and Trevor curiously. "As in a veil of induced emotion? Isn't that more of... verbal coercion? Sensual compulsion?"

"Yes," Adrian said. "That's exactly what it is."

Trevor's head spun. "So... this whole time you've been able to read our minds?"

"It's not mind-reading," Adrian assured him hastily. "More of emotion-sensing."

"Same difference," Trevor protested. 

"And no, I can't do it—not really. I can sort of do it." He sighed, shrugging and looking away. "For me it's more distorted, less acute. My human blood interprets my vampire powers more differently, makes it show in a more... _humane_ way, if you will."

"So how does this show?" Sypha leaned forward, clearly interested. She probably didn't see many dhampirs in her day. Then again, neither did Trevor. 

Adrian squirmed slightly, clearly a little embarrassed under all the scrutiny. "It's more empathy," he said. "I sense what people feel, but more than sensing it, I feel it just as strongly as the person themselves do, if not more so in some cases. I can subdue it most of the time, so it doesn't affect me as much as it used to when I was small."

Sypha blinked. "That sounds... that sounds overwhelming. How do you subdue it?"

He shook his head, looking down. "I just... shut it off, but it's there in the background if an emotion is too strong." He looked up at them. "But I can try and get into your heads, to try and glamour you into doing something, and you can try to resist. It's a start, and I understand if you aren't comfortable with the idea—"

"No," Sypha said. "I'd rather it be you and helping than it be her and unprepared."

They both looked to Trevor. 

He hesitated, then nodded. "Same here."

Adrian nodded, and there was something more loose and less tense in the set of his shoulders that suggested relief. "All right, then," he said. "I'll do my best to replicate what she does, though even my best efforts won't come near what she can do."

"We'll start tomorrow, when we meet here next," Sypha said. "What else can we do to prepare ourselves? Clearly she can't be hurt by our weapons, since you two tried."

"She said no weapon from this world can kill her," Adrian said grimly. "She said she wasn't from this world, and so nothing from it can mortally wound her."

"But she freaked when she saw your fire," Trevor observed, turning to Sypha. "Why?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I wish I knew. The fire I create is created with magic, which she's ripe with. For all we knew, it should have made her stronger, not weaker. Did it wound her? I couldn't really see."

Adrian shook his head. "It didn't exactly wound her," he said. "If she'd stuck around a bit longer, maybe it would have. It was almost as if she couldn't look directly at it. It blinded her, and it seemed to cause her pain."

Sypha looked down at her own hands as if she were seeing them for the first time, biting her lip. "But why?"

"Another question to solve among the rest," Adrian said, cutting his eyes up to hers, where they stopped and rested. She looked away quickly, and the blush on her cheeks was unmistakable. "We'll see if that's in your library as well," she said, looking at Trevor hurriedly.

He nodded, shoving down the acid-like feeling in his stomach, forcing it away from his brain. "Yeah, we'll check it out," was all he said. "I'm sure there'll be something."

"All right, then." Sypha stretched her arms out in front of her, sighing and standing. "I should get to bed, then. It's getting late—well, later than usual."

"Yeah, we all should." Trevor stood as well, and Adrian scooted off the bench after him. "It's almost dawn," he said, glancing outside, at the sky that had turned slowly from black to gray as they'd talked. "We should get home."

They walked in silence to the edge of the village, where the Speaker caravan was parked, its door slightly ajar. They stopped in front of it, none of them saying anything, the only sound coming from the crunch of gravel underfoot and the sound of their breaths in the still air of the early morning.

"Well... I'll see you tomorrow, then," Sypha said, and when they nodded she moved towards the caravan, pulling the door open and stepping inside. 

"Wait," Trevor called, remembering something suddenly. She turned, a hand on the edge of the door, already half-inside the caravan. "Yes?"

"How did you know to come?" he asked. "How did you know we needed your help?"

She shrugged, shaking her head. "I had a strange dream," she said. "Something told me I needed to go there, and so I did. And when I got there, I saw you two, and I knew what I had to do." She inclined her head at him one last time before turning and moving inside the caravan, shutting the door behind her with a faint _snap_.

Adrian turned to him, a hand on the hilt of his sword, his face open but curious as they walked towards the forest. "Why'd you ask her that?"

"It's just weird," he said. "She said she had a strange dream, and I feel like I did too, a few nights ago. I don't remember what I dreamed, but it wasn't normal. I forgot the moment I woke up, but... it just seems odd. Not like a coincidence."

"Perhaps there is much more to this than meets the eye," he said quietly, glancing up at the sky. "There's too much we don't know yet, so much we have to discover. What was it you said? _'If you know a creature's name, you know its weakness'_. Once we find out not what, but who she is, maybe..."

They'd stopped walking, just at the beginning of the trees. He turned to Trevor, and his eyes were huge and liquid gold. "Maybe this will end," he said. "We can end this."

"I hope we do." Unbidden in his mind rose the memory of the previous night, the way Adrian's body had felt against his, the way his breath felt against his lips. He remembered—he remembered every second of what had happened; everything was burned irrevocably into his brain. No amount of alcohol could possibly erase it. 

He know he'd lied to Adrian about not remembering anything, but it had been something of a defense mechanism—he didn't know if the whole thing had been because they were drunk and had no idea what they were doing, or if he'd actually meant it—but he didn't think he could stand it if he hadn't meant it. So he'd lied, and he'd seen the momentary look of shock on his face, the sudden surprise. But then he'd denied it too. So maybe it had been a good idea to lie. 

"Trevor?" Adrian asked softly. He jolted back to reality and Adrian was right in front of him, outlined by starlight, his hair catching the silver. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing." He refrained from taking a step back with difficulty. "Just tired, that's all."

Adrian smiled at him. "You're lying," he murmured, taking a step closer. "I can sense it."

He felt his breath hitch unevenly. "Could you always?"

He nodded, swallowing and looking down. "I just thought... I mean, you're a vampire hunter. Telling you that even though I have human blood in me, the possibility of a glamour was always there... I didn't want you to feel compromised or anything."

"I wouldn't." He caught Adrian's glance as he looked up quickly, a flash of gold. "If anything, it... it makes it easier."

Adrian's eyes darted around Trevor's face, as if he couldn't look at him enough, his brows furrowing. He took another step towards Trevor, and now he was so close he could feel his breaths on his lips whenever he exhaled. He said nothing, merely looking at him. He hoped he could at least vaguely sense that Trevor remembered last night, that he'd lain awake all night and into the morning just thinking about it, and realizing that he didn't regret what had happened.

"Because saying things aloud is ten times harder," Trevor went on, his voice cracking. He was far too close now. "I mean, it's a win-win, isn't it?"

A startled laugh was pulled from Adrian's lips, almost as if he'd been caught by surprise. Something in his eyes seemed to give way, as if Trevor's words had been a key that had unlocked something he'd been trying to hold back. His gaze dropped from Trevor's eyes, then darted back upwards.

"I suppose it is," he said, and he exhaled, the line of his throat moving as he swallowed, his lips parting as he leaned closer and closer. Their lips were millimeters apart—and then a sudden instinct made Trevor step back, something almost like fear choking him without warning. "I should—I should get home," he said, his head spinning.

Adrian bit his lip, leaning away as his cheeks flushed a dark red, blinking rapidly. "Of course," he said, and his voice was carefully neutral. He too took a step back, twisting his hands together. "It's late. I'll—I'll see you tomorrow." 

He turned and walked westwards into the trees, disappearing into the cover of the forest without a backwards glance, all the words neither of them had said hanging in the air in his wake.

* * *

"All I'm saying," his mother said with maddening amounts of patience, "is that it's high time you started looking, Trevor, that's all I'm saying—"

"Mother, I'm _twenty-two_. Isn't that a little too young to get married? And how come you don't hound the others like this, the only one who's married is Vayenne, and she's nearly thirty!"

"That's different," she sniffed, standing to her full height—which wasn't much. She was tiny, Marie Belmont, coming only till his shoulder if she stood straight. "Your sisters aren't the ones who are going to bear the family name forward, Trevor. That responsibility falls on you, and you alone."

He threw his hands up. "That's not fair, and you know it. And that's also rich coming from you—father took _your_ name when you married. You're a girl, and you carried the family name."

"I didn't have any siblings," his mother huffed. "There was no choice for us. We thought the same would happen for you, but thankfully God took pity on us all and blessed us with a boy—do _not_ roll your eyes at me, young man—and now that there is a choice, you will take this name forward."

"But I don't even want to get married," he protested. "I don't see the point of it."

She sighed expansively, turning with her hands on her hips. "Gabriel, a little help would be appreciated."

His father was sitting at the window, fingers steepled under his chin as he read a book calmly. "Trevor," he said, without looking up from the book, "listen to your mother."

His mother sighed again, turning away. "Please try to understand, dear," she said, kneeling in front of his chair and looking up at him with large, pleading brown eyes. "We need this to work out. If you just try to shed this stubbornness—"

"Can't I at least marry someone I like? Or at least tolerate, if nothing." He folded his arms. "It's so stupid to marry someone I don't even know."

She sighed. "Well, I'm afraid there's a rather short list of young women who fit the mold for this," she said. He swallowed a derisive comment about gender stereotyping with difficulty, his brain straying uninvited towards Adrian. He shoved the thoughts away, trying to close his expressions—his mother was exceptionally good at reading people, especially him. Thankfully he seemed to have done a passable job, because she didn't pry. 

"Didn't you marry father because you met him on your own and you wanted to?" He was grasping at straws now, but he wanted to keep himself afloat a little longer. 

"Like I said, I was different. There was no choice, I had to marry as soon as I could, and I'd already been stepping out with your father, so it was only a matter of time." She hesitated, looking up at him. "Unless there is someone, and you're not telling us something." She raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting. 

He swallowed, shaking his head. "No, there isn't anyone," he said. Well, it was half-true, at any rate. But again he found his mind straying to Adrian—and then, strangely enough, Sypha. All that came to mind when he thought of her was lots of strawberry-blonde curls, defiant frowns and too much sass for her own good. He pushed the unwelcome thoughts away before his mother could pick up on them, biting his tongue.

"I'm sorry, but you need to do this one thing for our family," she said, leaning up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He sighed but closed his eyes and relaxed into her touch, familiar as it was. "I know you don't want to, dear, but you need to. Can you do this for us?"

He sighed, hesitated, then nodded without opening his eyes. "Fine," he said. "I'll do my best."

She smiled, and he felt something tug at him, some deep uneasy feeling in his gut that told him clear as day that his best would still never be enough. He knew he would end up disappointing her, though he didn't know how. It made him feel sort of hollow inside, like someone had taken an apple corer and had dug out his insides. 

"Oh, Trevor, I know you will," she said, leaning forward and smothering him with a kiss. He batted her away, but it was halfhearted, and he found himself grinning before long. "Mother, you're choking me," he said, and she laughed, leaning away with her arms around him. "Once this mess is all cleared up, you'll know why you had to do it," she said, smiling warmly and without a shred of guile. "It might seem silly now, but later it'll pay off."

He looked back at her, and what he was about to say in reply died on his lips as he did. There was something about her face, something that made unease coil inside him. He felt a vague sense of déjà vu, one that tugged at him unpleasantly. Something about the arch of her brow, the faint dimple in her right cheek when she smiled, the way her long dark hair fell over her forehead when she leaned forward. 

He blinked, and the spell broke—his mind couldn't quite connect what he'd seen before, and his thoughts seemed jumbled. He frowned; it wasn't as if he'd seen anyone who reminded him of his mother... had he? He couldn't quite remember...

"Trevor?" Her voice in his ear made him flinch, that same little part of his mind waking up again, whispering to him. Where had he heard a voice like hers before? He shoved it away; this was his mother. There was no reason for him to feel uneasy or hesitant around her. "Are you all right?"

He blinked, and she came into focus, frowning, and any residual apprehension drained from his mind. "Yeah, I'm fine," he heard himself say, and she smiled at him again, saying something about how she'd have to manage to work some magic to get Elara and Esther out of their rooms for lunch, but he was hardly listening. He couldn't shake off a feeling that told him that something would happen, something bad, and there would be nothing he'd be able to do to stop it coming.

* * *

"All right," Adrian said. "Trevor, come here."

"How come I have to go first?" He sighed, but stepped up obediently, facing Adrian, who was standing with his arms loose by his sides, his posture suggesting he was relaxed—but he could see the coiled springs of tension beneath his skin, making his body stay unnaturally still. 

"Because," he said, taking hold of Trevor's shoulders and holding him in place, "you're clearly the one she's going to target, and we can't have you trying to kill either us or yourself."

"And she seems bent on making you pay for something you clearly have no idea about," Sypha said from where she was perched on a stack of hay. They'd decided to meet up in a small empty barn on the outskirts of the village, one where the lights were either dim, flickering or broken, the ceiling dripped brownish water and the floor was scattered with moldy hay and wood. It was the best they could manage without being disturbed, however. 

Adrian exhaled, closing his eyes a moment, then opening them again. They were unnaturally bright, and the color of them seemed to shimmer and shift, as if he were looking at them through a kaleidoscope. He locked his gaze directly onto Trevor's, not looking away, and as he did, something in the air between them clicked, like a connection he hadn't known was there. 

"Trevor," he said, and his voice was all Trevor could hear, sliding through the air like sweet syrup and penetrating the haze in his mind. His hands fell away from Trevor's shoulders. "Step back," he commanded. Entrancement flooded his voice, a slow, heady power that curled in every syllable. 

He had taken a step back before he knew what he was doing, his legs carrying him backwards. He felt dazed—he was in control of his body, but he just didn't want to be. He wanted to do what Adrian told him to, and nothing else. 

"Take out your whip and your sword," he ordered, a hand held out, his eyes still shining like liquid gold, "and drop them at my feet." Glamour dripped from his voice, a magic that bypassed his brain entirely and went directly to his muscles, making his arms move, drawing his whip, then his sword, then letting them fall in front of Adrian's boots with a clatter of metal on wood.

"Trevor, fight it," he said, the glamour breaking for a moment as he said the words. Then immediately after the magic connected again as he said, "Now step closer."

He moved to do so—and then he hesitated. 

"Good," Adrian said, breathing heavily, in his normal voice. "Fight it." His hand curled into a fist, and the glamour settled over him like a veil once more as the next words left his mouth. "Step closer," he repeated. 

Two separate instincts exploded in his mind, both warring with each other—one wanted to break free, to defy and to step back instead of stepping forward, to move away instead of moving closer. The other wanted desperately to do whatever Adrian said, to obey his every command if only to hear his voice shape words of praise. 

Unable to decide which side to act on, he stilled, not moving to take a step backward nor forward. The vivid flash of a memory rose in his mind—listening to the woman's voice, filling his head and forcing him to do what she asked. Feeling the control he had over his own body vanishing, replaced by an alien presence that made him want to scratch his skin off until he bled. 

"Trevor, _step closer,"_ Adrian commanded, and a fresh, powerful ripple of compulsion thrummed in the words, washing over Trevor's whole body. He tried to fight it feebly, but the force of it was too strong. He caved, a harsh breath escaping his lips as he stepped forward, feeling an overwhelming wave of dizziness crest over him, dulling his vision. He felt something crackle under his skin, and then the connection between him and Adrian was severed. 

He looked up just in time to see Adrian stumble, nearly falling backwards. Before he could move to catch him, he heard a soft _whoosh_ , and a powerful gust of air pushed him back to his feet, guided by Sypha's outstretched hand. She leaped to her feet as Trevor moved towards him as well, both of them reaching his side at the same time. 

"Are you all right?" Sypha asked, and he nodded, his cheeks flushed and his eyes still uncharacteristically bright. "I'm fine—just a little tired, since I expended much energy using the magic." He shook his head a little as if to clear it of flies, standing straight. "I'm fine." 

He glanced at Sypha, a tiny bit of admiration flitting across his face. "How do you do it?" he asked, a little breathlessly. 

She frowned. "Do what?"

"So much magic, without collapsing for lack of energy afterwards? Don't you draw magic from your own reserves of energy?"

She smiled a little. "I was born with magic in my blood— _all_ of my blood, not just a part of it. As a result my energy is divided into two; a regular and a magical one. One depletes when I use my magic, but the other remains the same. But, if I use too much magic at a time, then it'll start drawing from my regular store of energy."

"What happens then?" asked Trevor. 

"I could die," she said candidly. "I'll grow so weak so fast that my body won't have enough power even to keep my heart beating or my lungs from filling."

There was a beat of silence. "When does this... limit come into play?" Adrian asked carefully. "Is there a particular amount of magic you have to expend before you start drawing from the regular energy store?"

She shrugged. "I haven't found it yet. It depends on the intensity of the magic I do, and the concentration of the elements. Duration has a part to play as well—if I do a lot of intense magic for longer than an hour, I don't think I could survive it."

There was another pause as they digested that bit of information. "So," Trevor concluded at last, "even our invincible Speaker magician isn't invincible after all. We're more fucked than I thought we were."

"Oh, shut up," Sypha said, kicking his ankle. "I wasn't ever invincible, but I'm definitely the closest thing you've got to it besides Adrian. And moreover, I hardly broke a sweat when I conjured all that fire in the woods last night. You two are in good hands." She wiggled her fingers, a tiny flame wreathing around her palm. 

"As for the glamour," Adrian said, coughing and standing straight, "Trevor, I didn't expect you to break free the first time, so it's all right—but you nearly did it, so that's more than I can say I hoped for."

"That's the most backhanded compliment I've ever received," Trevor muttered. 

"You're welcome," he said with a tiny smile. "And nor did I expect it to be so difficult to maintain the veil of the glamour for so long a time. It's harder than I expected to bring it to the surface and keep it there."

Sypha and Trevor exchanged a glance. "You've... never done it before?" Trevor asked. "This was the first time you did it?"

Adrian nodded. 

"How did you know you could do it?" demanded Sypha. "What if something had gone wrong? What if you'd used up too much energy and shriveled up or burned to a crisp? What if you'd channeled the magic the wrong way and your body burned up? What if—"

"I was pretty sure I could do it," Adrian said, looking faintly alarmed. "It's the most common vampire power besides the drug in our fangs, so I merely assumed I could do it—"

"But what if you'd underestimated the magic you needed to do it?" Trevor countered. "You could've been hurt, or worse. It's stupid."

Adrian opened his mouth, then closed it again, and it might have been Trevor's imagination, but it looked like he was blushing. "I don't—I mean, a little, but—I thought defeating this monster was our priority, and not—"

"Your safety?" Sypha raised an eyebrow. "Adrian, we want to kill this thing, but we don't want to die before we can get there. And we care about you. More than you might know. So next time, make sure your decisions are based on something that's beyond doubt."

"And if using too much energy can kill you, then we should take breaks between this stuff," Trevor suggested. "If you're this tired now, then you have to either build resistance or limit hours of usage."

He was definitely blushing now. "You're right, that was sort of stupid of me." He seemed to be fighting a smile. "I'm all right now, though. I regenerate fast, including my energy." He shook out his hands, exhaling and flicking an errant strand of hair off his forehead. He turned to both of them again, nodding.

"Sypha?" He gestured. "Your turn."

"Are you sure?" She looked hesitant. "You're not too—"

"I'm fine," he insisted. 

She stepped in front of him, still looking cautious and tentative. He closed his eyes, reaching out and carefully placing both his palms on either side of her face. He exhaled, then opened his eyes, and Trevor could see now that they had indeed changed, turning brighter, more lustrous, hazed through with shadows and seductive. 

Sypha's eyes were glazed over, as if she were in a trance, and she was staring at Adrian as if he were God Himself descended from heaven. He could practically see her pupils expand, a fluttering sigh escaping her lips, her cheeks reddening. No, she wasn't looking at Adrian like he was God, he amended—the look on her face was much too... debauched for that. 

"Sypha," he murmured, and Trevor suddenly felt like he was intruding on something private, like he was witnessing something he shouldn't be. Their eyes were locked, and there was a nearly visible electric charge between their gazes, one that crackled and popped with magic and something else that set him on edge. "Conjure a fire," he commanded. 

She lifted a hand immediately, palm-up. There was a spark, and the air bent over her skin with a faint _pop_ as a small lick of flame sprang into existence between her fingers. She was still staring at him with that drunk, infatuated look on her face, and Trevor wondered if he'd looked at Adrian the same way. He hoped not. 

Adrian stepped closer, as if he too were under some sort of trance brought about by his own magic. They were far too close for Trevor's liking, but he refrained from vocalizing his protests as he lifted a single finger into the air. "Other hand," he said, in a voice like honey dripping onto snow. "Ice."

Her other hand came up, a sphere of ice coalescing from thin air above her palm. It glowed an eerie blue beside the fire in her other hand. His eyes narrowed to slits of molten gold, and Trevor could have sworn that for a second his gaze flicked to him—and then he looked back to Sypha, the pull of the spell strengthening. "Step closer," he commanded. 

Her chest hitched as she clearly fought against whatever compulsion his voice evoked, her eyes darting over his face. The flame in her fingers guttered as she gave an involuntary twitch of her head—then her eyes darkened in a familiar concession of defeat as she took another step towards him, hardly seeming to notice that she was nearly pressed up against his body. 

"Fight it," he murmured, the spell breaking briefly, then re-solidifying again. "Look at me," he said, and the glamour in his voice had nearly tripled now, echoing in his words so profoundly that even Trevor found his gaze latching onto Adrian even though the command had not been his to follow. 

She gasped in a breath, her eyes dropping to his shoulder instead. The sphere of ice in her hand tipped sideways and fell, shattering on the wood below. She hardly seemed to notice, even as the fire cradled in her other hand went out.

"Sypha, look at me," Adrian said again, and she shook her head, her teeth gritted. He said nothing, but the expectancy radiating from him was near-palpable. She stilled, her breath catching audibly in her throat, and then her face tilted up even as defeat blossomed in her eyes, which latched onto Adrian's, defiance in every line of her face. 

He ended the spell, and the shifting shimmer in his irises dissipated suddenly, and when he blinked they were his normal amber again, albeit duller and more tired. Sypha straightened, blinking just as he staggered backwards, his face ashen. She rushed forward just as Trevor moved forward as well, and he half-fell against them both, one arm supported on Sypha's shoulders while the other curled loosely around Trevor's waist. 

"That went well," he said, breathing heavily, leaning on both Trevor and Sypha, sagging backwards. Sypha shook her head, jabbing at his side with her elbow, eliciting a squirm. "It did _not_ go well," she said. "You look ready to collapse."

"Either way." He smiled at her. "You did well too."

"We need to focus on getting you stronger," she said, heaving his arm further up her shoulders even though she was blushing. "Can you walk?"

He frowned down at himself, standing only because he was supported by both of them. "I don't think so."

"Great," muttered Trevor. "Let's just stay here for a while, then," he suggested, moving closer to help Adrian up further. "Unless you want to leave."

"Not with the two of you holding me up like I'm your drunk friend," Adrian said, tipping his head back to squint at Trevor. "Although I could pass out and have you two carry me, though I don't think that's ideal, do you?"

"Do you?" Sypha sounded faintly alarmed. "Feel like passing out, that is."

"I mean, it wouldn't take much effort," he admitted. "I've never felt this tired. Or hungry," he added as an afterthought, frowning. 

Sypha and Trevor exchanged another look. "You can stay here, I'll go get something to eat from the inn—" began Trevor. 

"No!" They both jumped at the suddenness and loudness of it, and Adrian hesitated, biting his lip, lowering his voice. "No, that won't be necessary," he said, looking away. "It's all right."

"It'll only take a minute," Trevor said, bewildered. Beside Adrian, Sypha looked similarly perplexed. "It's nothing, I can go and come with something small—"

"You don't get it," Adrian said, and his cheeks were flushed now. 

"Well, then help us get it," Trevor said, peering into Adrian's blushing face. "If there's something wrong, then we can help you."

Adrian looked at the ground, his face full of what could only be embarrassment. "Imnthungryforfood," he muttered. 

Sypha frowned. "What?"

He looked up, sighing, clearly frustrated. "I'm not hungry for food," he said clearly, avoiding their eyes. Sypha met Trevor's gaze from above his head, and the implications of what he'd meant rammed into him with full force a second later. "Oh," was all he could say. 

"Oh what?" Sypha's brows furrowed. "I don't understand—oh," she said a moment later, apparently catching on at last. "Adrian... you need blood? To survive?"

"Not the way a full-blooded vampire does," he said, still looking down and away from them both. He had stiffened in their arms, holding himself rigidly. "My heart produces only half the amount of blood a regular person's does since my father's blood slows the natural production of it. If I lose too much, or apparently if I overexert myself by using too much magic—the only way I can get enough back in my system to function regularly is to drink it." He hesitated, shaking his head. "I understand if it seems abnormal or strange—"

"No, it doesn't," Sypha said firmly. "It doesn't matter that you need what you need to survive, Adrian." She met Trevor's gaze almost challengingly, her eyes bright and defiant. "We'll help you no matter what."

"Yeah," Trevor said after a pause. "You don't have to feel weird about it. We're not going to judge you or drop you here to fend for yourself just because your body needs something the way we need water, or air. It's—"

"Natural," Sypha finished. They caught each other's eye, then both of them looked away hastily. 

Adrian let out a slow, measured breath, nodding. "Thank you," he mumbled. 

Sypha hesitated, then said, "Adrian, if you... if you need blood, then we can—"

"No." He sounded firmer than firm, his tone brooking no room for argument or protest. Even Sypha, who Trevor now knew could argue with anyone about anything, closed her mouth and bit her lip. "Are you sure...?"

"I'm not drinking either of your blood." His voice was quiet, but strong. "I won't argue with you on this. Once I get home, I can sort out my needs." He wriggled slightly in their grasps. "Now help me walk," he said. "Once we get to the woods I can manage on my own."

They heaved him to his feet, and the three of them moved towards the door, Trevor pausing to shove it open, shoulder them through, then kick it shut again. They moved steadily towards the forest, talking quietly to themselves, Adrian's voice getting stronger the longer they did. 

"Thank you both," he said once they reached the trees, and Sypha and Trevor managed to extricate themselves from the tangle of arms and shoulders that they'd become. "I didn't think I'd be this tired after using magic."

"Tomorrow we'll focus on both us and you, then," Trevor said, dusting off his cloak. "We'll do something to get you stronger. Maybe you can carry a bottle of blood or something." He snorted. "Just sip it while we practice."

"Hilarious," Adrian sniffed. "We'll manage," he said with a wave of his hand. "I don't want us to deviate from the point—which is getting rid of this monster." He turned to Sypha. "Try to find out more about her in the library," he said. "And Trevor, make sure we can get into the Belmont Hold fast. We may not have enough time."

"I'm working on it," he muttered—which was half-true, at any rate. 

"Tomorrow, then," Sypha said, putting a hand on each of their arms. "And both of you..." She hesitated, biting her lip. "Sleep well," she said, and then as if on a sudden impulse, she leaned forward and kissed them both on the cheek. Before either of them could react, she murmured a quick "goodnight", then turned and hurried back to the caravan, vanishing into the shadows. 

Trevor put a startled hand up to his cheek where her lips had rested seconds earlier, and turned to Adrian, who was blinking at him with his own fingers lingering on his face. "What on earth was that about?" Trevor asked. 

Adrian laughed. "I have no idea," he said. "But I suppose this means you're really getting along now, doesn't it?"

He turned away, huffing out a laugh as he shook his head. "Yeah," he said, and to his surprise, he actually meant it. "Yeah, I guess it does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See y'all in June, thanks for reading. :)


	10. Combs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Combs:** _The line between good and evil, the precipice of righteousness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, I'm back! I've had a wonderful trip and I'm home again, and while education exists (ugh), the overwhelming wave of work hasn't hit us yet, so I'm safe for now. As it was, I managed to get this chapter finished really fast. Hope everyone enjoys, and a huge thank you to everyone who dropped kudos and comments, you all made it just that bit easier to write this and post it early. :)

**_Sypha_ **

_His eyes were all she could see, his voice was all she could hear. It coiled around her like a sinuous snake, slithering up her body and pouring into her mind, where it struck a chord and resonated throughout her body, echoing as if in a cavernous space. Deep and soft and rich, familiar yet alien, strong yet sensual, calming yet arousing. She never wanted to stop hearing his voice say her name._

_His touch was like ice and fire and water, and ripples of pleasure expanded outwards from where his skin met hers. She wanted to do what he told her to, she wanted to please him, to allow him to beckon her closer and closer and closer until she could fuse their skin, interlock their bones. She didn't know what it meant, that desire that was a spark and had been fanned into a churning inferno inside her. She didn't know what it meant, but it frightened and exhilarated her at the same time._

_She could see his eyes, like suns floating in the air in front of her, suns that glowed with otherworldly light. Golden will-o'-the wisps that dripped enticement, spheres of light that colored the world and tinted it amber. Their light seemed to permeate the air, filtering into her head and whispering to her, telling her to do what he asked. It wasn't like how the woman had done, a forced demand, a harsh presence in her mind, one without word or voice. She_ wanted _to do what he asked her, wanted to hear his voice, wanted to feel his touch._

_She heard him whisper her name again, and every instinct in her body arched up in response, like a snake before its charmer. His eyes blinked and then he swam into view; sharp cheekbones, that waterfall of pale gold tresses framing the elegant lines of his face. He was beautiful, the most beautiful man she'd ever seen._

_He drew nearer and nearer, and with every step closer he took the heat coiling inside her intensified, until she felt like she was burning, filling with fire she didn't want to control. She closed her eyes as she felt his hands, trailing along her arms, his fingers brushing along her throat and collarbone and leaving trails of sparks in their wake. He lowered his head towards hers and she felt his lips brush the shell of her ear, his breath hot on her over-sensitized skin. His fingers stilled on her hips, and everything felt magnified a thousand times, every touch of his lips and his hands._

_"Sypha," he whispered, and she was oh so aware of him all around her, of the way there was a slow, heavy ache inside her, one that pulsed with every beat of her heart. She was pressed up against him, and she could feel the strength of his body all along her own, the ridges of muscle and hard sinew under the supple leather of his coat. But it wasn't enough—she wanted more, wanted to feel his skin against hers, wanted to lose herself in him and get drunk on the scent and taste of him, of Adrian._

_Because hadn't she dreamed of it, hadn't she found her gaze irrevocably attracted to him, her eyes always straying to him even though she told herself time and time again not to? Hadn't she wondered that day how it would feel to kiss him, to feel the strength of his hands and taste the softness of his mouth, the way she would be able to feel the hint of a fang or two if she allowed herself to move further, feel his hair against her fingertips and his heartbeat against hers—_

_His breath on her lips startled her from her jumbled, heated thoughts, and when she looked up all she could see was the gold of his eyes, the liquid shimmer of them. He said her name again and heat crept down her body when she felt his hands on her hips dip lower, and the breath she had been about to take in caught in her throat._

_He pulled her even closer, his long, elegant fingers sliding into her hair, winding the short curls around them as he tipped her head back. His lips stilled on her throat, just at the pulse hammering in her skin. Sensation spiraled outward from where his lips touched her neck, and a deep shiver rolled over her body when she felt the light, teasing friction of his fangs against her skin._

_They had frightened and even disgusted her a little in the beginning, but she had come to think of them as an integral part of him now, something he wasn't complete without. And now they did far from disgust her—here, like this, feeling the delicious scrape of it against her skin, all she could feel was desire._

_He pressed himself closer, and she felt him inhale, taking in the scent of her skin, her arousal, her blood. His fingers suddenly knotted tightly in the fabric of her robes at her waist, and she felt herself relax into his tight, dominating grip, uncaring that he could tear out her throat with only a single movement of his head. She wanted this. She wanted him to kiss her until she bled, press her closer and closer until there was no more space between them, wanted all of him, everywhere._

_The ache inside her tripled in intensity as his tongue traced lightly across her skin, and she felt her back arch in response, her lips parting in a gasp. The swell of her breasts brushed against his chest at the movement and a sharp stab of desire pierced her suddenly, her lip catching on her teeth._

_He stilled, and her eyes fell shut just as his fangs pierced her skin._

Her eyes snapped open and she gasped for breath, feeling a wave of itchy heat roll over her as her body grew aware of the air and the humidity. It was still dark outside, the sky tinted a deep sapphire. She let her head fall back against the covers again, closing her eyes, breathing heavily. 

Her magic was bubbling underneath her skin, fizzing to the surface of her blood as if in a response to her fevered dreams. That throbbing ache was still rolling over her, so acute that she still felt it. She knew that the dreams were a side effect of the magic she'd been subjected to earlier that day, the fact that the nature of that magic was old, organic and something she'd never experienced before. 

She felt her body still as the memory of what she had dreamed trickled back into her mind, feeling embarrassment and anger in equal measure bring a hot flush to her cheeks. Why did he affect her like that? She understood the magic was causing her body to react, but most of what her subconscious had shown her was a product of her own fevered thoughts and the want that she shoved down every day.

She sat up, rubbing at her eyes. She sighed, not opening them, allowing the clamor of her thoughts to settle. She remembered what Mama had always told her, that dreams were an expression of your deepest, most secret desires—a plea from your heart to act on them for they were so tucked away into the recesses of one's mind that they only ever saw the light when all else was dark. 

She exhaled, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. If what she said was true... _Do I really want that?_ she found herself thinking. _Does my heart know what I want even if my brain doesn't—that somehow, somewhere, it wants that primal closeness, that savage intimacy, the pain and pleasure of something only Adrian can give me—?_

She jerked herself away from the thoughts, gripping a fistful of her hair to stop the uncontrollable flow of images and words in her head. It had been a silly little-girl crush until now, or so she had thought—something she could write off, something that would go away in a few weeks. 

And then there was Trevor Belmont, who so clearly shared something with Adrian that she couldn't hope to achieve. She wasn't jealous, not really—but there was something in the easiness of their banter and the softness in Adrian's eyes when they lingered on him that made her wonder. 

A sudden wave of hopelessness crashed onto her, leaving her dizzy. _I suppose this is what I'll always settle for,_ she thought, lying back on the bed and closing her stinging eyes. _There will always be someone who can do more than me, and no matter what I do, it won't ever be enough._

There was a strange sort of peace that came with the thought, one that finally allowed her to let go of consciousness and drift back into an uneasy and far from restful sleep.

* * *

She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as a cloud of dust rose from the book she'd just opened. Once it cleared, she peered down into the blotched, aged pages, scanning every line. 

She'd arrived at the library around eight o'clock, hoping at least today she'd have some luck at finding out more about the woman. She had taken to calling her the woman in white in her head, even though Trevor had emphatically told her time and time again that a woman in white was an entirely different type of spirit. 

_Betrayed by an unfaithful husband, murders her children and then kills herself,_ he'd said. _She goes after men who are as unfaithful as her own husband, seduces them and kills them. Whatever we're dealing with, it's not that._ She'd considered it briefly, and even though many boxes checked, it didn't seem right. She wasn't a spirit or a ghost, for one. Moreover, she didn't go after only unfaithful men—as far as Sypha knew, at least.

This was the fifth day in a row she had come to the library since they'd first begun meeting to try and guard themselves from the woman, and every day since she'd come up empty-handed from her thorough searches. Trevor claimed he was getting closer to find a way to sneak them into his basement, which, however odd it seemed, sounded a lot better than fruitlessly rummaging in this stupid library. 

She sighed, sliding the book back onto its shelf. In the week she'd been in here, she'd read almost every single book inside it, and had memorized at least seventy. But how would knowing about every witch trial since 1395 in excruciating detail help her kill the woman in white and save the people?

She slid down the shelf, landing in a dusty heap on the ground with her legs sprawled in front of her, defeated. There was nothing in this library, nothing that could help them. She'd come here for what felt like weeks and weeks, but she still hadn't found anything. She let her head fall back against the shelf behind her, sighing and closing her eyes.

"Sypha? What on earth are you doing down there?"

Her eyes snapped open, and through vision blurry with exhaustion she made out a long, slender figure, lots of black, and masses of blond hair. Despite her tired, hopeless state she felt her heart jolt in her chest, and she debated furiously whether to stand or not. Noting the piles of books scattered around her prone form, she decided against it. 

"You're covered in dust," Adrian said, wrinkling his nose adorably as he picked his way gingerly through the minefield of books surrounding her. 

She sighed. "Good morning to you, too."

He knelt as close to her as he could, but they were still separated by a space about four books wide, sending her a small smile. "I wouldn't say morning—it's about three in the afternoon."

 _"Three?"_ She groaned, putting her face in her hands. "I've been here for seven hours? I'm going to go insane."

He frowned that familiar, concerned frown, with that adorable line between his eyebrows. "You're working too hard, Sypha. How many hours of sleep did you get last night?"

She looked away. "Two? Three? Something like that."

He swept the books that separated them aside, scooting to sit right next to her. Kneeling, he was slightly taller, his shadow falling across her face and gilding him in dim orange light. With his hair falling artfully over his shoulders as it usually did, and the elegant lines of his arms and legs, he could've been a statue of some lonely, pensive god. The only thing that humanized the whole image was the books that were scattered at his feet and the dust that had settled on his shoulders. 

"You need to rest," he said softly, blinking tender citrine eyes at her. "You can't compromise on your own health for this, no matter how much you think it is unimportant."

"Well, it is."

"Not to me."

She blinked, taken aback and unable to say anything in response. He blushed a little but held firm, still gazing at her with that odd look on his face. He was close—too close. The inexplicable urge to lean forward and kiss him was unbearably tempting. She swallowed, trying as hard as she could to lean away. 

She felt something soft brush against her face and let out a surprised breath at the feeling of Adrian's fingers on her cheek, his fingertips ghosting across her skin. He smiled a little, his eyes sliding across her face to meet hers. "There was dust," he murmured. 

A startled little laugh escaped her lips, and she realized belatedly that he wasn't wearing his usual gloves—so the soft, cool touch on her cheek was his skin and not the leather. The thought made a swarm of butterflies take flight in her stomach, all fluttering madly with no sense of direction.

 _Lean forward,_ hissed a voice in her mind. _Just do it._

 _But he might not want it,_ whispered another, stronger voice. _He probably doesn't want you the way you want him. He thinks you're just good friends. Remember the way he looked at Trevor the other night?_

_You don't know for sure if there's anything between Adrian and Trevor. If there was, he'd tell you. Just do it, just try. See if he moves away._

Her heart lurched in her chest as she gave in, moving to lean forward carefully. Their eyes met and held, and he didn't move back as she leaned closer and closer, his lips parting slightly. His eyes had just begun to fall shut—when a loud thump made her pull back hastily, pressing herself back against the shelf behind her.

Adrian leaned back as well, hands braced on the floor on either side of him. She met his gaze for just a moment, sure she was blushing all over her face—then she looked away to the side, at the book that had fallen out of the shelf beside her. It had fallen out from the gap between two shelves, as if it had been hidden there.

"It's... it's another one of those children's books." Her voice was calm and normal, to her utter relief. She picked the book up, gazing down at the cover, which was dull with time and neglect. The title was embossed in gold, but most of it had flaked off, leaving only the indents of the letters behind. 

She opened it, just to do something else besides look up at Adrian's expression. She rifled aimlessly through the wide, square pages, covered in large, fading script. There were lovely paintings inside, each one detailed and colored painstakingly. Their brushwork and dye color echoed much earlier times, nearly a hundred years before. 

She was about to put it aside when she froze. 

The painting that gazed up at her was no less detailed than the rest, but it seemed different somehow—the angles were sharper, the colors darker, the face of the woman on the canvas sadder. And her face... 

"Adrian, I found her," she said suddenly. "I found the woman in white."

"What?" His voice was almost sharp. He quickly folded himself next to her again, peering into the book's pages. "Where?"

"Right here." She tapped the painting. The woman gazed mournfully back at them, the skirt of her white gown spread around her like the petals of a flower. Long, loose waves of inky black spilled till her waist, and she was small, delicate almost, even sitting down. Her palms were open in her lap, and there were two crosses of blood drawn on her skin. Her features were even, pleasing—soft, full lips painted a pale red, cliff-high cheekbones and large, familiar, almond-shaped eyes.

Blue eyes. 

"That's definitely her." Adrian exhaled, running a careful finger down the page. "There's no doubt about it—but the other books didn't show her face this clearly, and we couldn't see her eyes."

She shook her head. "And look at this." She pointed at the woman's dress, at the left shoulder in particular. There was a small golden symbol inked into the fabric, one familiar to her—an intricate golden cross, surrounded by swirling sigils. There was no mistaking it. 

"Oh, God," Adrian said. "It's the Belmont crest." 

There was a brief, shocked silence following the revelation, and then Adrian swore softly, looking away. He ran a hand through his hair, which showered messily down his shoulders. "That day, in the woods—I noticed her dress, the left shoulder of it was ripped off. There was a tear—right where the crest should have been."

"This confirms it," Sypha said. "I was right—she _is_ a Belmont."

"Was," Adrian corrected. "She said that death had made a corpse of her as it did for everyone. And she was right—this must be how she looked before she died."

"She's beautiful." There was no denying it—she was lovely, as fresh and crisp and coldly beautiful as a dewdrop. "Or, she was."

"What does the story say?" He peered over her shoulder again, his hair brushing her arm. She set the book open on her lap, looking at the title. _"The Weeping Woman,"_ she read aloud. "It doesn't mention her name, but the crest is unmistakable."

"What does it say happened to her?" He was looking at her, face flushed, eyes bright. She imagined she looked similarly frenzied as she hastily looked back at the book, her eyes skimming the pages until the end of the story, which was only a few pages long. 

"It says she was a lovely noblewoman, and she had everything, but she was still sad, because she had never loved anyone before, and she feared she'd never love anyone in her life. She wasn't allowed to leave her estate, because her family was very conservative. It says here that they... _fought the shadows._ "

"Hunters. The Belmonts were hunters," Adrian said. 

"Well, she didn't want to fight the shadows," Sypha went on, still skimming. "She felt burdened by the weight of her family's expectations of her and left the estate at night one day after dark. She met a man, and began trysting with him every night, leaving the house by night. They fell in love, and she was finally happy."

Adrian frowned. "The end?"

"No," she said softly. "The man she loved—their love was somehow forbidden, I don't know how, it doesn't say. But she knew that, so she didn't ever say anything to her family. But one night her brother caught her as she left the house and followed her. He saw them meet, and he went back, brought the whole family there to ambush them, and—" She broke off suddenly. 

"Well?" Adrian craned his neck to peer down into the pages. 

"They made her watch as her brother murdered him," she finished, quietly. "They killed her lover right before her eyes, and then they brought her back home, where they... Oh, my God." She stopped reading a moment, horrified at what she was reading, at what the words said after that. 

"What?" Adrian's eyes were wide. "What did they do?"

"They buried her alive," she said finally. "They killed her."

 _"What?"_ Adrian stared down at the pages. "Her own family?"

"They said one who consorts with their enemy was no family of theirs, and they buried her in the woods outside their estate. They claimed that land was cursed and whoever should tread there would meet the same fate as she did—to fall in love with the wrong person and pay the price for it. That's the end."

"That's horrible," Adrian said. "That's a terrible story to put in a children's book."

"Is it true, though?" She looked down at the woman weeping in the painting, the livid red crosses on her palms glaring out at her. "It might just be a story."

"Somehow, I don't think so." He tapped the page. "You've run through this place with a fine-toothed comb—so how did you not find this before? It fell out just now, and it fell out from that odd place, which suggests it had been hidden. Nobody goes into this section of the library, moreover. Someone didn't want us to find this book, but we did."

"And the Belmont crest..." Her fingers outlined the lines of it, the swirls and crosses that made it up. The same symbol that gleamed on Trevor's chest, on his back. "I don't think that's a coincidence either." She stood, leaving the book open on the ground, the colors of the painting bright against the dusty wooden floor.

"So now we know what happened to her, how she died," Adrian said, standing next to her. "All we need is for Trevor to confirm the story somehow."

"And then we can find out what she's become," Sypha said. "And then—"

"We can stop her."

They stared at each other, both breathing hard. The revelation, the excitement and fear it brought with it, was coursing through both of them, in a near-palpable electric charge between them. They were so close to finishing the story, to finding out what she was and finally putting an end to everything. 

"You did it, Sypha." He grabbed her hand, so tightly it almost hurt. "You found out what happened."

She blushed. "Well, I didn't do all of it. You helped."

"Don't be modest." He was grinning now. "What would we do without you, dear Sypha?"

She laughed. "Be chasing your tails, probably."

"Probably," he agreed, still smiling, and then without warning his arms looped around her waist and then he lifted her off her feet, spinning her in a circle. She shrieked, grabbing his shoulders as he spun, laughing as he did. Before long she was laughing too, giddy and breathless and happier than she ever remembered being. 

"You did it," he said, setting her down but not letting go of her. His eyes were bright, warm as sunlight. "You solved it. I knew you could."

"Did you? I thought I'd have to stay in here for another two years before I found anything useful," she said, still a little breathless. "Maybe three."

"I'm thinking it may take Trevor that much time to get us down into the Hold," Adrian sighed. "It is a dangerous place to plan something crafty, since someone's always behind you." He bit the inside of his lip, looking down at her. "We need to tell him this."

"We should. Tonight."

"He might not take it well," he mused aloud. "I mean, he hardly took it well when you suggested that the murders might have had something to do with his family, so if we tell him this we should do it in stages, like we break the story up and tell it to him in bits so that he can't connect them all until we give him the final piece, and after that—well, after that he'll get angry, obviously, and then we'll have to—"

"Adrian," she said, suppressing a grin.

"Or maybe we can just give him the book and let him figure it out himself, maybe that'll lessen the blow a little, but then there's the picture—"

"Adrian," she said again, biting her lip to keep a smile from spreading across her face. God, he was adorable when he was rambling like this. 

"He might get a little spooked if we show him the picture, I mean, he's the only one who can see her face and everything, but we need to confirm that it's definitely her or else we can't go forward after this—"

She leaned up and kissed him. 

It shut him up effectively; he let out a startled little sound against her lips and then he practically melted into the kiss, his aimless maundering silenced instantly. His lips were soft and just firm enough to send a shiver skittering down her spine, and while they were cool against hers, his breath was warm. She'd never imagined her first kiss would be in an old, disused, musty library with books scattered all around their feet and dust in her hair, nor had she expected it to be with the half-human son of Dracula—but it was warm and sweet and everything she could ever have hoped for it to be.

His arms twined tighter around her, pulling her suddenly against him, and she half-fell forward onto his chest, her own arms wrapping around his neck for balance as she stood on her tiptoes to reach his mouth easier. His nearness was intoxicating, and it made a blissful buzz spread through her whole body, one that left her dizzy with happiness. 

She pulled away after what felt to her like millennia but was probably only minutes, still out of breath and pressed up against Adrian in all the right places. "That shut you up, didn't it?" It was half a laugh. 

He smiled at her, and it made him look like sunlight in human form—half-vampire form. Whatever. "It was most efficient," he agreed. "And you're welcome to use it whenever you deem fit."

She laughed, lacing her fingers together at the nape of his neck, feeling his hair brush softly against her skin. "I'd be happy to." Then she sighed, gazing up at him. "I hope the library doesn't mind me borrowing the book," she said. "They might."

His smile turned lopsided. "Well, it _was_ hidden." He appeared lost in thought, his brows drawing together and his eyes drifting somewhere far away. "It was hidden... but by who? Maybe the people in the village know something about all this and they wanted to hide what had really happened. Or—no, they'd have destroyed the book then. So maybe it was the Belmonts who hid it here, and they knew nobody would find it here. Or—"

"Adrian, you're doing it again," she murmured, leaning up and dropping a featherlight kiss at the corner of his mouth. He huffed out a laugh, tilting his head to chase her lips with his. "I hope we can make a habit of this," he said softly, his tongue flicking over her bottom lip, and she smiled, leaning up again. 

"Me too," she said, and then there was no talking for a long time.

* * *

The wind blowing through the street was brisk, bracing almost. She shivered a little as it seeped through her robes and made goosebumps break out on her skin, drawing the fabric tighter around herself.

It was late—around ten at night—and the streets were less busy as they were in the day, and most of the people she could see were either men or boys. She kept her hood up by her grandfather's wish even though she'd rolled her eyes inwardly as she'd done so; she knew the possibility of getting singled out as a woman was there, but to her, it was low. 

The sky overhead was pale gray, dense clouds hanging low over her head. They hid the stars and the moon, and she could see dry cracks of lightning flash here and there, followed by slow rumbles of thunder that she could hear in her bones. It was going to rain, and soon. She could smell it, too—ozone and wet earth. 

She passed the library, and a little burst of happiness came with the thought of what had happened there earlier that day. A small part of her still couldn't believe that she had kissed Adrian and he had kissed her back and that he actually liked her, and it woke up and accosted her at random parts of the day, like when she'd been leafing through a book in the caravan and nearly tore a page out as it screamed in her ear and made a wave of almost incredulous happiness wash over her. 

Even now it made warmth spread through her chest, blocking out the cold, and she hid a smile, drawing her hood up higher. She moved to the edge of the village, taking in a deep breath, the smile not leaving her face. It was infectious, the thoughts and the joy they brought with them. The air was cool and clear, and it blew towards the village from the forest, rustling the leaves playfully as it did. She inhaled the scent of earth and moss and damp earth, closing her eyes. 

She felt that something was wrong before she sensed it.

It started as a deep, uneasy feeling in her stomach, one that made her brows furrow and the smile slide off her face. She tilted her head, eyes still closed. Then she smelled it, alongside the scent of impeding rain and the tang of the forest—the sharp, burned-sugar smell of magic again. 

Her eyes snapped open, just in time for her to see a dark shape move into the trees, walking directly into the woods. Her eyes widened, and her warning cry died on her lips; whoever was going into the forest was too far to hear her even if she yelled. She stayed rooted to the spot, her mind racing; it was definitely a man who'd gone into the trees, she was sure of it—the gait and figure confirmed it—but whoever it was, she didn't know him. It wasn't Trevor or Adrian, of that she was absolutely sure. 

She bit her lip, twisting her fingers in her robe as she warred with herself as to what to do. She could go back and tell the people that someone had gone into the forest inexplicably, and that the smell of magic was all over the air. But then there would be invasive questions, and she couldn't answer them.

Making up her mind, she clutched her last bit of courage to her chest and set off towards the trees at a run, feeling her hood fall back as she did. She raced into the shadow of the forest, and just as her feet entered the looming darkness, a blinding flash of lightning split the sky in two, a deafening boom of thunder rumbling in its wake. 

She heard the soft patter of rain falling on the ground behind her, which turned almost immediately into a churning roar as the storm poured from the clouds, the wind howling through the trees like the eerie cry of wolves. She hugged herself with a shiver, moving deeper into the cover the trees provided. 

She turned again towards the darkness of the forest, taking a deep breath and allowing a fire to wreath her hand as she moved towards where she knew the weeping woman would lead the boy. Why else would someone go into the forest, known to be dangerous, and when a storm was so obvious besides? And the overwhelming smell of magic was just enough to tip the scale from chance to intention. 

She moved forward, drops of rain that somehow found their way through the thick canopy dripping onto her hair and clothes. She shivered, the humidity of the air making the ends of her hair curl and frizz. She moved gingerly but quickly, eyes open and body tense. Anything could be lurking in the shadows here. 

She emerged at the river a few minutes later, and the storm had churned it into a maelstrom of frothing water which roared and gushed forcefully through its bed. The rain was falling in earnest now, torrents and torrents of it, so heavy she could hardly see across the river to the other bank across from her.

She extinguished the flame in her hand, then held her arms out, allowing the air to lift her across the river. When the banks were so muddy and slippery, she couldn't take a chance and end up falling into the water somehow. 

As soon as her feet touched down safely on the other side she knew that the woman was luring the boy to the same place they'd seen her before; she could see the clear imprints of shoes on the mud here, slightly marred as if he'd skid as he'd landed. She conjured a flame again, closing her mind gradually. The flame sprang higher and she doused it instantly—the magic in the air was strong. 

She moved forward quickly, all prior hesitation forgotten. It slashed through the air in the darkness in front of her suddenly, the ray of light. This time the light that shone through was murky, darker, blurred as it was by clouds and rain. She could see the rain that poured through the gap in the foliage, silvered by the light. 

She crept towards it, tucking her magic deep in her chest, making it nearly invisible. She could hear the rustling of leaves, and she held her breath as she stopped just shy of the ray of light that dampened the forest all around her, concealed behind a bush. There were streams of muddy water that flowed over her sandals, which was uncomfortable and disgusting, but she bit her tongue and stuck it out. 

She could see a dark shape moving in front of her, and when she peeked out from between the leaves, she saw the boy she'd chased into the woods, standing directly under the gap in the trees. He was still and rigid almost, staring blankly ahead at something she couldn't see. She glanced up and down, but all she saw was dark forest. 

He stepped forward and she decided she couldn't sit still there any longer, leaping to her feet. Her sandals nearly slipped on the muddy ground but she dug her heels in, lurching forward. "Stop," she hissed, stepping in front of him. "What are you doing here?"

His eyes were glazed over, unfocused and hazy. He was quite ordinary-looking, really—chestnut-brown hair, clear gray eyes and freckles all over his nose and cheekbones. He was lanky, reedy almost, but much taller than she was. He couldn't have been older than seventeen. He didn't reply. 

"You shouldn't be here," she said. "We need to get back to the village _now."_

No answer. 

"Can you hear me?" she demanded, stepping directly into his path. He looked right through her, eyes still glazed, arms slack by his sides. He brushed right by her as he walked past, not looking at her. She bit her lip, allowing a tiny bit of magic to rise in her veins. It bubbled and popped with reaction, and she nearly gasped aloud at the intensity of it. 

"What is he looking at...?" She squinted into the trees, but there was nothing there. He was still aimlessly walking forward, not blinking. Panic rose in her throat and she moved forward on an impulse, grabbing him by the wrist. 

A sharp zap passed between their skin as she grabbed hold of him, and she recoiled from it, but didn't let go. And the moment their skin came in contact with each other she looked up and she saw everything that his magic-drugged mind saw in thin air in front of them. 

The first thing she noticed was the music, eerie and haunting and beautiful, echoing through the trees like the keening cry of a mourning bride. It pulsed rhythmically through the air, and her own pulse took flight to mimic it, her heart slamming in her chest to keep up. 

The second thing she noticed was the woman.

It was her, but it wasn't. Gone was the rotting, graying skin, mottled with grave dirt and scars. She was young and whole again, her skin white and smooth, her hair long and thick and nearly the precise color of black ink. If there had been any lingering doubt about whether the woman in the story was the woman they were dealing with, it was eliminated instantly; the artist had captured her every feature perfectly with each brushstroke. 

Her eyes were the same, however—that piercing, flame-like blue that reminded her so much of Trevor's. Perhaps it was simply her imagination, but she thought she could see some of him in her face; the line of her jaw, the arch of her brows, the bow of her lips. 

She saw now what Adrian had mentioned earlier—the left sleeve of her gown, however mended and flowing shimmering white it was, was torn. Exactly where the Belmont crest should have been. It flew around her, blowing up in the wind like buoyant clouds floating in a summer sky as she spun and skipped across the forest floor, dancing. 

Her movements were fluid, perfect, wild and free. She was entrancing, commanding the gaze, her long hair lifting in the wind as she threw her head back, baring the long, slender column of her throat. Her arms rose and fell, and her bare feet moved with an unattainable grace that she had only ever seen in Adrian—in other words, an inhuman sort of grace. 

Her pale red lips were parted, and the eerie song that painted the air with a sorrowful tune poured from her throat, a song without words and a melody without notes. Her voice was deep for a woman's, rich and melancholy and fathomless. Sypha could have listened to her song until she died and she would die contented. 

She found herself nodding off and jerked back to focus, gritting her teeth and making to drag the boy away. "We can't stay here," she hissed. "You need to leave now."

He said nothing still, his eyes fixated on the woman as she danced. There was a sickening sort of hunger in his gaze, one that spread in his eyes like a disease, darkening them. He tried to shake off Sypha's grip, but when she held fast he gave up, merely dragging her along as well as he moved towards the woman. 

"No—stop!" She dug her heels into the mud again, but whatever was dragging him forward was strong, and she could do nothing against his grip. She exhaled, then lifted her other hand, calling her magic to the surface. It rose readily, reaching feeling fingers for her will. Finding it, she swept her hand through the air sharply.

A shard of ice as large and as wide as a shear swept through the illusion, shattering it. It passed clean through the woman and the music stopped abruptly, the image vanishing into mist. She heard the ice shatter against the ground, breaking apart into a million pieces. Next to her, the boy's eyes cleared for a moment and he blinked, shaking his head.

She barely had time to congratulate herself for her victory when the song began again, this time to her left. She turned, helpless, to see the illusion return again, as if her magic had not just tried to destroy it. The boy's eyes glazed over again, and he moved once again towards the dancing woman. 

She swore softly, making sure she was still holding onto him as she called a sphere of fire to her palm, remembering the way she had screamed and shrieked the last time her fire had come in contact with her skin. Praying that this would work, she tossed the ball of fire at the illusion, guiding it with her hand. It spread from the sphere, licking up the woman's body and drowning her song with the roar of flame. 

The spell broke once more, and this time Sypha didn't wait. She shoved the boy away from her, his eyes wide and clear now in the orange-red light the fire cast over the forest, drenching his skin and the leaves around them. She held her other hand out, controlling the fire still. 

"Go!" she shouted. "Get out of here! Leave!"

"Wh—what happened?" he spluttered. "Where am I?"

"You need to get back to the village!" She could hear the singing echo back faintly and cursed, realizing there was no time left. She curled her fingers into her palm tight, the fire dying as a chunk of ice the size of her fist coalesced above her hand. She swung as if to deliver a punch, and it shot towards the boy, colliding solidly with his left temple. He crumpled, knocked out cold. 

She backed away from the singed leaves where the woman had been mere seconds before, both palms held up. She was breathing heavily, adrenaline singing in her veins. She looked around frantically, but the forest around her was empty. 

"I know you're there," she called, summoning a ball of blue flame. It hovered just above her skin, pulsing in the air like a disembodied heart. "Show yourself, unless you're a coward."

"I am not the coward here, Sypha Belnades," hissed a voice, and she appeared out of the air like mist, materializing from nothingness. She felt a faint spark of amusement; it seemed all the Belmonts had that stubborn pride in them. 

She was transformed halfway, exactly halfway—on the left side she was a beautiful noblewoman, with snow-white skin and thick hair and a red rose of a mouth. And on the left side she was a monster, an undead creature with graying, leathery skin and torn clothes and grave dirt streaking her dress. She was divided as if by an invisible line directly down the middle. Only her eyes were the same.

They flicked to the unconscious body of the boy a few feet away. "Crude, but effective," she allowed. "It seems you aren't entirely hopeless, letting everyone I choose die."

"You won't kill any more innocents," she said. "As I said—it's cowardly. If you want to prove a point, do it. Don't take detours to show us all how powerful you are."

She laughed. "Oh, I don't need to. You already know how powerful I am. And all this, the luring and asking and taking the hearts—it's not to prove a point, it's all a game to me. Simply to see how far I can take it before the villagers start to salt and burn the forest."

Her head spun. "Salt and burn the forest?"

Her smile was a razor blade in the dimness. "I'm sure that wasn't in your little history books," she said. "When the first strings of killings happened, when I first realized my power and my rage that fueled it, they came to the forest to cover it with salt and burn it down so that no other hellish creature could tarnish it again. They burned down a good chunk of the place, far north of here."

"It stops you?"

Her smile widened. "I didn't say that."

She grit her teeth. "I know," she said. "I know what happened to you. Your lover, your family burying you alive. I know who you are. You're a Belmont."

A blur of silver flashed in front of her eyes and then she was pinned to the tree behind her by her throat, gasping for air. The woman's skeletal fingers were wrapped around her neck, her teeth bared. The dichotomy of her face was startling this close, grotesque and unnatural. She felt bile rise in her throat as she struggled to breathe. 

"Do not say that name in front of me," she hissed. "I am not part of that family anymore. They're the ones that did this to me. They're to blame. I was innocent, it was them who burned everything they touched!" She released Sypha, breathing heavily, rage writhing in her eyes. 

Sypha's legs hit the ground and crumpled beneath her, and she lay there, gasping for breath and holding her throat, where already bruises were beginning to bloom. She looked up at the woman, whose fair, lovely side began to corrode even as she watched, turning dead and decaying once more, completing the image. 

She managed to find her voice amidst the pain. "Are... are you going to kill me?"

The woman stepped back. "No," she breathed, her fingers curling into fists. "No, not this time, Sypha Belnades. Tonight you walk free, but only because I can see in your eyes you know what they did to me was unfair. It was inhuman." 

She took another step back. "The next time you come here I will have your heart, and this time I will rip your breast open and take it for myself and you will feel every inch of skin I tear apart." She stepped back into the ray of light, the rain still cascading downwards onto her body. It slid off her, not touching her skin or clothes. 

"I can..." Sypha coughed. "I can avenge you."

The woman froze. "What?"

"I can make them understand—the children of the children of the children of those who killed you. I can make them honor you, give you your last rites, bury you with... with honor. And pride."

Her eyes were wide with longing and distress and sadness, and for half a moment Sypha thought she had succeeded—but then the look on her face vanished, replaced once again by anger and bitterness. "No," she said. "No, I will avenge myself. I will kill every last one of the Belmont family until there are none left. I will be the only creature of the night they couldn't kill. It will be the fear that I strike in their hearts that will be their last thought."

"No," choked Sypha. "Don't... don't do it. Please."

The woman shook her head. "It has been eons," she hissed. "Eons trapped in the ground with nothing but the memory of my sadness and loss. And I will have my revenge."

She looked up at the sky and turned to mist with a faint sigh, dissipating into the air like a long worn-out secret. She faded away into the air, leaving Sypha alone in the forest with the weight of what she had done resting heavily on her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me (ﾉ☉ヮ⚆)ﾉ ⌒*:･ﾟ✧ you  
>    Supernatural references
> 
> Also, the Belmont woman's story was heavily inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's wonderful poem _Annabel Lee_ ; after I read it I was just haunted for days thinking about it, and it expressed itself here, surprising me more than anyone else. Please give it a read, it's beautiful.


	11. Butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Butterflies:** _The purity of souls, the flight of evil and the transformation of a lifetime._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I procrastinated on this chapter until last night. Sorry for the delay!
> 
> Also Carmilla is a bad bitch.

**_Adrian_ **

It was going to rain. 

It was less of an intuition than it was a blatant, profuse flooding of his senses, all leaping on him at once—the overwhelming smell of ozone and forthcoming rainwater, the slender cracks of lightning that branched out in the sky at regular intervals, the foreboding rumble of thunder low in the background. 

He hated that his vampire senses were all interpreted through human organs, turning them usable but distorted. He was particularly frazzled during storms, and he could tell by the obvious weight of the clouds above him and the mere second's gap between the flash of lightning and the accompanying boom of thunder that it was a formidable one—and was going to hit any minute. 

He flinched now, as yet another crack of lightning snaked through the sky. He was moving through the people scurrying about in the streets, all hoping to find shelter before the rain began. He could feel all the hairs on his arms rise, setting him on edge as another bolt of lightning flashed above him. 

"Hey," said a voice in his ear, and he jumped, caught off guard. He spun around, his hand halfway to the hilt of his sword. When his eyes landed on whoever had startled him he huffed out a frustrated breath, dropping his hand. "For God's sake," he said as his pulse settled back to normal. "Don't do that, Belmont."

"Sorry," he grinned, the wind blowing through the street catching his hair in its frivolous fingers. "You sort of looked like you were lost or looking for someone, so I went ahead and assumed it was me."

"Oh, magnificent deduction," he sighed. "I'm sorry to have to break it to you like this, but the world, no matter how devoutly you may believe it, does _not_ revolve around you."

"Maybe not," he agreed cheerfully, "but you're happy to see me, I know you are. You've got that funny look on your face that you only give me."

"That's just my utter exasperation," he said, waving a dismissive hand, but he couldn't help the little grin that tugged at lips all the same. Despite the big mess he'd gotten himself into earlier that afternoon when Sypha had kissed him—he still couldn't quite believe it had happened, not that he was complaining—it was so easy to fall back into this with Trevor, this verbal back-and-forth that he secretly loved. 

He jumped again as a deep rumble of thunder briefly distracted him, feeling the clouds above suck the heat from the air, making his hair stick to his forehead with sweat. He felt itchy all over his skin, distressed almost. He hated thunderstorms, had hated them since he was little. The high frequency of the thunder and the electricity that poured through the air for a split second as lightning struck always affected him more than it did his father. As he'd told him when he was younger, his senses were just that bit more human than a full vampire's were. 

"Hey, are you okay?" Trevor put a cautious hand on his arm, and Adrian felt a faint _zap_ as he did. A second later Trevor drew his hand back quickly, cursing. "Ow," he said, blinking. 

"Sorry," Adrian said hastily, pulling away. So it had been a bit of static electricity that had caused the zap and not the thrill of Trevor's touch. Oh, well. That was disappointing. "I'm brimming with static charge, it's the storm. I get a little"—he winced as another round of lightning illuminated the sky—"antsy."

Trevor looked bemusedly impressed and interested all at the same time. "So during thunderstorms you turn into a human lightning rod? Cool."

"It's not _cool_ , it's annoying. It's like this terrible ringing in my ears and the current in the air hitting my skin. Once it starts to rain the pressure will give way, so I'll be all right."

"If you don't fry up, that is." Trevor glanced up at the sky, which had darkened even further. "So what's the plan?"

"Find Sypha, first." He straightened his coat. "We have a lot to discuss, we uncovered most of the hidden elements of the woman's story at the library. See, there was this book, it was hidden," he explained at Trevor's baffled expression. "That's how we hadn't found it until now. We found out what happened to her, and now all we need to do is discover how exactly she turned into whatever she is now."

"So what's the scoop?" Trevor stuffed his hands into his pockets as they walked towards the Speaker caravan at the very edge of town, heads down against the roaring wind. "Do you know her name?"

"Not her real name," Adrian said, feeling a sort of anticipatory panic bubble up in his chest. He had no idea how Trevor would react to this. "But we know everything else." He took a deep breath before continuing. "Trevor, Sypha was right. The woman we're dealing with, she is—was—a Belmont."

Trevor said nothing, the wind howling as if in answer. After waiting a few minutes and realizing he wasn't going to say anything, Adrian plowed on. "And she was killed almost a hundred years ago in these very woods. She fell in love with a man she wasn't supposed to love, and her family discovered her. They... killed him in front of her, and then they..." He trailed off, not knowing whether to go on or not. 

"Just say it," Trevor said, his voice hard. "It doesn't matter, just say it."

"They buried her alive." The words were terrible, disgusting, turning the air between them bitter. "They buried her in the woods and put a curse on the land saying that whoever walked there would be doomed to fall in love with someone they shouldn't and meet the same fate she did." 

As if on cue, one last crack of lightning split the sky open, and the rain began to fall. 

It turned from a shower to a deluge within seconds, soaking both of them through their clothes in moments. He felt the pressure in the air and his body vanish, the rain cooling his overheated skin. He felt it drip into his hair and soak through, turning it heavy and damp, a weight on his back. 

Trevor stopped walking abruptly and Adrian looked back at him from where he was standing a few paces ahead, squinting against the rain. He looked cold and small and alone, his eyes cast downward and his mouth set in a hard line. There were raindrops caught in his eyelashes, spangling them and making droplets roll down his cheeks like tears. He looked up, an unreadable expression on his face. He didn't speak. 

So instead Adrian went to him, standing as close as he could without it seeming improper to anyone watching, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. "Trevor," he said softly. "Say something."

"What do you want me to say?" He sounded bleak and distant. "You're telling me her own family did this. _My_ family did this. They murdered an innocent woman just because she loved someone they didn't want her to. I wouldn't even have believed you if I didn't know how they could be then, my family. The things I've seen in my house, the things I've read about what they did..." He shook his head, his eyes remote.

"And now she's turned into exactly what they were supposed to kill. A monster. I guess that means they got what was coming, didn't they?" He choked on a bitter laugh, looking away. 

The rain was still falling all around them, a curtain of crystal droplets that hid them from the rest of the world. He could hear, as if from a great distance, the shouts of the people as they packed up their wares and hurried to find shelter or return home. But here, in this little pocket of space he shared with Trevor they were separate, apart.

"I'm sorry," Adrian said simply. 

Trevor's eyes found his again, impossibly bright and blue in the dimness. "I hate it when people apologize for things they didn't do," he said, his voice slightly thick.

"It's not an apology, really—it's a way of empathizing. To say I'm sorry you're unhappy. Because I am." His fingers moved up, absently brushing a damp strand of hair away from Trevor's eyes. "I know this is a lot to take in, especially for you." 

"I'll live." He let out a shuddering breath, shutting his eyes as Adrian's fingers traveled slowly, moving from his eyes down to the faint angle of his cheekbone, then down to his jaw. His thumb swept across the chiseled arch of the bones of his face, so fine it was as if a sculptor had molded them to perfection. It was smooth, cool, the frictionless slide of damp skin, but somehow it made heat spread in his skin wherever it touched Trevor's. 

Just a few hours ago he was kissing Sypha in the library, but here, now, everything was Trevor, the warmth of his breath on Adrian's fingers, the distress radiating from him so strong Adrian could feel it, his pulse hammering. But somehow he didn't think his accelerated heartbeat had anything to do with what he'd just revealed. 

His fingers reached Trevor's lips where they stopped and rested, and his own pulse was soaring now, fluttering wildly beneath his skin. Trevor's eyes were still closed and he was entirely still, barely breathing as Adrian's fingers moved over his skin. His lashes were fluttering slightly, and even under all the rain his cheeks were flushed.

He didn't regret kissing Sypha, but he didn't regret kissing Trevor, either. After weeks of torturing himself and asking himself over and over what was wrong with him and how he could possibly feel that way he realized he just didn't care. It was simple—he wanted both of them, equally, and he wouldn't let anything stop him from having them both. 

And it was that thought that gave him the courage to lean forward and press his lips to his. 

Trevor gave a choked, hopeless sound against his mouth and then he was kissing him back desperately, his fingers fisting in the fabric of his coat at his shoulder blades. He pulled Adrian closer as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his lips parting. He tasted like rain and bitterness and Adrian chased it, his tongue probing between Trevor's lips and drawing upon his mouth as if he were incredibly thirsty. 

It wasn't like their first kiss, slow and blissful and exploratory. This was hard, clashing, desperate—both fighting to get closer, both holding each other so tightly it hurt. The world fell away, the rain and the damp and thoughts of the woman and the fact that they were standing in plain sight where anyone could see them. Everything fell away and became Trevor, his breath and his lips and his hands that gripped his shirt so tightly that he thought the thin fabric would tear under his grip. 

He pulled away, out of breath, and Trevor was staring back, breathing hard. He swallowed, and then he said abruptly, "I didn't forget."

Adrian frowned. "What?"

"I lied. I didn't forget that night we got drunk. I remember all of it."

Adrian stared at him. "You... remember? Everything?"

He nodded. "I was just... scared you wouldn't..." He shrugged. "You know. I thought you thought it was a sort of one-time thing."

He felt a smile tug at his lips, leaning close again. "Does this answer your question?"

Trevor's eyes fell shut as their lips touched. "You tell me." 

Adrian's fingers slid into his hair, grasping a fistful of wet black strands as he closed the distance between their lips, his heart slamming in his chest. Trevor groaned softly, his fingers tightening in Adrian's shirt, his lips parting in invitation. Adrian's whole body tightened, and a sudden, overwhelming instinct that wasn't quite human took hold of him, his brain screaming at him to just _bite him, flood his veins with the implicating drug, fill yourself with his essence and pin him beneath you, show him that there is pleasure to be found in giving_. 

He grappled with the instinct briefly, but before he could act on either side two things happened at once—there was a deafening crash of thunder so loud his head rang, making him pull back hastily; and then he felt a sudden explosion of magic from the forest, invading his senses without warning and nearly making his knees buckle. 

He staggered backwards and Trevor caught him, breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and lips swollen and eyes brighter than bright. "What?" he asked, his voice slightly rough. "What happened?"

"The forest," he gasped, out of breath. He shook his head to clear it, blinking and surprised—it took more than your average effort to fluster him like this, but Trevor Belmont seemed up to the challenge. If anything, he was more disoriented from it all than Trevor was himself. 

"What about it?" He pulled Adrian upright again, his boots sinking into the mud that was flowing out of the trees. It was still pouring rain, and they were both soaked to the bone now. Adrian's hair was dripping down his coat and onto his boots, but he paid it no heed.

"Something's happening," he said, turning towards it. "I felt something—like a blast of magic. Something's going on in there."

Trevor's gaze met his, and he knew immediately that he was thinking exactly what Adrian was thinking. 

"Sypha," they said in unison.

* * *

They ran past the Speaker caravan, whose lights were off, the whole street still and quiet save for the roar of the wind and the lashing of the rain on its roof. Its door was firmly shut, and Adrian knew instantly even as they passed it that Sypha wasn't inside. 

The rain was coming down so violently that he could hardly see three feet in front of him, and the mud underfoot was slippery and threatened to overbalance him at the slightest misstep. Even so he could see the forest as it rose up in front of him and Trevor, the trees swaying in the harsh wind and their leaves pouring trails of silver water onto the ground, which ran in rivulets down the slight slope of the land. 

Something in the trees caught his eye, suddenly—the shadows shifted, flickering slightly. He grabbed Trevor's arm, skidding to a halt. Mud splattered everywhere as he did and Trevor swore, nearly tripping as he stopped too, squinting at Adrian. 

"What? Why'd you stop?" He sounded out of breath.

"There's something there," he said. "It's coming this way."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Trevor reach for his whip, not drawing it fully but keeping it ready at his side. He moved slightly towards the hunter, shifting so as to be able to step in front of him should the need arise—it was part fear and part obligation and part something else that made his heart race at the prospect of seeing Trevor hurt.

A few seconds later whatever was moving towards them slowly swam into view, the rain pouring from the clouds above obstructing his vision slightly. He realized belatedly that his fingers had bunched tightly in the fabric of Trevor's sleeve to keep him behind him, and as he squinted into the gloom he looked down at his white-knuckled grip on the hunter's arm. 

"Sorry," he muttered, letting go, but Trevor's fingers encircled his wrist as he did, his blue eyes unreadable. Adrian held on gratefully, feeling the warmth of Trevor's skin despite the rain and chill. 

The figure drew even nearer and Adrian's vision sharpened almost mechanically, clearing as if some invisible eraser were clearing the sight before him, rubbing away the blurred edges and sharpening them. He felt his body relax before his mind could fathom why, slower to react to the familiarity of the figure approaching them. No, not figure— _figures._ There were two. 

He felt all the breath leave his body at once, and panic, relief and concern erupted in his chest, all mixing into one very confused emotion. He was about to call out when one of them stumbled and fell to their knees, sliding to the ground where they lay, still and unmoving. 

"Sypha!" His cry was lost on the wind, and he felt Trevor's fingers free his wrist as he surged forward, running towards where she had fallen. 

He skidded to his knees beside her, and he could see the second figure he hadn't been able to identify—it was one of the village boys, one he vaguely recognized. He was hovering in the air as if asleep, his back parallel to the ground and his arms dangling. He was breathing, and alive, and didn't seem injured. 

But he wasn't Adrian's concern. Sypha was still not moving, her chest rising and falling shallowly, her eyes closed. He couldn't imagine how powerful her magic and her mind must have been, for it to keep the boy aloft even if she was unconscious. She was lying on her side, and the mud was beginning to seep through her robes. 

He gently took her by the shoulders, pulling her upwards and bracing her body on his own, taking her weight—which, frankly, wasn't much—onto his chest. He wrapped an arm around her waist from behind, keeping her in place as his other hand brushed her damp hair from her eyes, and they were trembling slightly. 

"Sypha," he whispered, his voice cracking. He hated to do it, but he allowed the tiniest bit of glamour to creep into his voice. "Sypha, wake up."

Her eyes fluttered open, and they slowly slid to him, and he felt his throat close up at the relief and safety he could see there. She coughed, then winced, her head falling back against his chest. "Adrian," she breathed, and her voice was slightly hoarse. "Am I dead?"

He let out a laugh that was half a choked sob. "You know I'd never let that happen."

She smiled a little, then her eyes drifted to something behind him. "Hey," she said weakly, and he turned to see Trevor kneeling beside him, seemingly uncaring about all the mud and flowing rainwater getting onto his boots. He grinned at her, but Adrian could see the way his eyes lingered on something on her neck. "Hey," he said. 

"I guess I look like shit, huh?" She sighed, wiping the rainwater from her cheeks. 

His smile turned lopsided. "You've definitely looked better."

She laughed, then coughed again, squeezing her eyes shut. "Ow," she whimpered. 

Trevor nodded at Adrian. "Look, she's bruised," he said, then reached out, a hand settling on the neck of her robe. He raised a brow at her, and when she nodded he drew it downwards, baring her throat and collarbone—where her skin was mottled with dark blue bruises, spread all over her pale skin. They were almost regular, elongated and wrapped lengthwise around her neck, almost as if...

"She tried to choke you," Trevor said, softly. "Didn't she?"

Sypha sighed, her eyes closing. "I'm alive," she said, and her voice was definitely cracked. The woman's grip must have been brutal, strong enough to damage her vocal chords. "That's what's important."

"How'd you get away?" asked Trevor, and Adrian thought that it should be him, that he should be asking her what had happened and if she was all right, but he just couldn't speak. He was partially in shock, that burst of panic he'd felt when he'd seen her lying still on the ground not having dissipated completely. 

"I didn't," Sypha said, her eyes opening again. They were tired, full of pain, but otherwise she showed no sign of discomfort. Not for the first time he felt a rush of admiration for her, knowing that she had to struggle twice as much just to get halfway to where he and Trevor were in the eyes of the people.

She looked up at them, hesitant. "She let me go."

There was a brief silence. "What?" Trevor said at last. "She... let you go?"

She nodded. "I... she was going to kill him," she said, cutting her eyes up to the prone form of the boy, still floating along above them. "She was... enchanting him, I don't know—but I got rid of the illusion for a second and he woke up. She was about to rope him in again, but I knocked him out."

She coughed, pain crossing her face for a second before she went on. "I confronted her. Told her I knew who she was, who she is, why she's like this. She told me her goal, why she's doing what she's doing." She hesitated, falling silent for a few seconds. 

"It's okay," Trevor said quietly, his face hard and his jaw set. "You can say it."

She bit her lip. "She said she wouldn't stop until she wiped out your whole family," she said, and her voice cracked in the middle. "She said she would avenge herself by it. She's not going to stop until it's done." She looked away, and her eyes were shining with unshed tears. "I'm sorry."

Trevor's face was entirely expressionless, and he said nothing. For a few minutes, the only sound was the rumble of the thunder and the incessant patter of the rain as it fell. Finally Adrian found his voice again. 

"We won't let her," he said. "We'll find out what she's become, we'll destroy her before she can even lay a finger on your family." He looked at Trevor. "I swear it."

"Don't," Trevor said, and his voice was rough. "Don't say things you—"

"Don't mean?"

"Can't promise," Trevor finished. "She's powerful, powerful enough to do everything she says she's going to do. How can we know where, when she'll strike next? She's unpredictable, erratic. She may have been a Belmont once, but all that was human about her has burned away. Something happened while she was lying here, something bad. There's nothing human about her anymore."

"We'll do it," Sypha said, her voice getting stronger. "We can. Knowing what we know about her is already an invisible advantage. If we just find out what she's become, then we can kill her and stop this."

Trevor shook his head, eyes bleak. "But what if she's right?"

Adrian stilled. "What do you mean?"

"She's right—what they did to her, her own family—it's disgusting, it's inhuman. The same blood that ran through the veins of the people who murdered their own daughter runs in mine, my family's. What if we deserve this, what she's doing? Maybe we should just let her kill us all—"

"Stop." Sypha's voice was hard, authoritative almost. "Don't think that. You may have their blood, but you are not the ones who killed her. Her vengeance has no direction, no path. She's alone, and she's terrified and she's angry. If you think like this, then it'll be easier for her to get to you."

"And she's suffered too long," Adrian said. "Killing her would be partly an act of mercy, just as much as it would be one of chivalry. You know what they did was horrible. Knowing that means you're nothing like they were. Don't torture yourself over something you can't control. Okay?"

Trevor sighed, looking away. His hair blew across his face, striping his features in black and gray like a wolf's. He swallowed, and Adrian saw his eyes harden. "Okay."

"So now she knows we know," Sypha said, struggling to sit up in Adrian's grip. "She may be more dangerous now that she does."

"I've nearly gotten how to get us all down into the Hold," Trevor said, nodding. A flash of lightning illuminated his features for a split second. "All I have to do is test out the timing and getting in, and then we can go inside."

"Good," said Sypha, sitting up and slapping Adrian's hand away when he tried to help her. "I'm tired of looking in this broom cupboard they call a library here."

"So now what?" Adrian asked, drawing his hand back. "What do we do?"

"We need to stay away from the woods for a while," Sypha said. "There's something changed about her, something different now that the truth is out—it's like she's in a completely different light. I don't know how, but she's more dangerous now. She's more unpredictable, more volatile. If any of us try and go near her, she won't hesitate."

"Okay," Trevor exhaled, a measured breath. "Okay, enough talking. We need to get you back." He raised his eyebrows at Sypha, and she sighed, sprawled in the mud, apparently uncaring that her robes were sopping wet. She nodded, holding her hands out. 

Trevor stood, grasping her hands in his and pulling her to her feet so forcefully that she stumbled, falling forward onto his chest. She righted herself, and Adrian was sure she was blushing even in the dark. "Sorry," she muttered, and he put a hand on her back to steady her, his face a little red too. 

Adrian hid his grin as he stood, ignoring the way his coat was covered in mud and his boots were caked with the stuff. Sypha flexed her fingers and lowered the boy gently to the ground, his feet touching the mud below. He was still unconscious, his chin lolling onto his shoulder. 

"I should mention," Sypha said, "that he saw the illusion, and he saw my magic as well as hers. I don't think that's a safe situation to be in, do you?"

"No," Adrian said, exhaling as he shook his sleeves back. "Let me handle this."

He shut his eyes, calling on the dormant magic his blood sparked in his veins, that deep chasm of roiling, churning power inside him. He opened his eyes, and everything around him was slightly blurry, impressionable. He felt detached from his own body, as if his soul was hovering a few inches from the ground and his feet were touching the ground. 

His hands reached out, settling on the boy's thin shoulders. "Wake," he said, and he could feel the thrum of compulsion in his voice, the magic pulsing in the air that he pushed towards the boy's mind. 

His eyes snapped open and he gasped in a lungful of air, looking around frantically. "Where am I?" he demanded. "What's going on? Who are you people?" He caught sight of Sypha and let out a strangled yell, lurching backwards with fear in his eyes. "You!" he said, his eyes wide. "You're a witch!"

"No," Sypha said, reaching out a hand. "No, I'm not a—"

"Don't touch me!" He cringed away, holding his head in his hands. Adrian shook him slightly, forcing his gaze back to him. "Calm yourself," he said. "Breathe slowly."

He calmed instantly, his eyes glazed and his body going still. He could feel the boy's mind, all his thoughts and feelings and reactions like clay to him, easy to take in his hands and shape into whatever form he so wished. It was an intoxicating feeling, one of power, one that could sweep him away if he let it. 

"You went into the woods," he said, willing a strong surge of glamour to infuse his voice. He felt his energy sap as the magic took hold. "The last thing you remember is walking into the trees. Sypha saved your life, she brought you back. You remember nothing of what happened in the woods."

"Nothing," the boy repeated, his voice monotonous. 

"Good. Now, sleep." He pushed magic into the word, so much that he felt his knees buckle. The boy's eyes rolled back into his head as he fell forward into Adrian's arms, dead to the world. He ended the spell, feeling his connection to the boy's mind sever. He held him up, shaking his head to get rid of the spots in his eyes as he stumbled backwards, his feet slipping on the mud. 

Trevor steadied him, am arm wrapping firmly around his shoulders. "Steady there," he said in Adrian's ear, his breath warm. 

He had only a moment to relish in the feeling of Trevor's warmth before he stood straight, his arm falling away from Adrian's shoulders. "I can stand," he said, forcing down his nausea as he straightened. "Let's go back."

They made their way slowly towards the village, its lights seeming comforting and welcoming in the rain. It promised warmth and dryness and comfort, and all of them were tired down to the bone—emotionally and physically—not to mention they were cold and wet. Trevor and Sypha were both shivering, and while Adrian couldn't feel the cold, he could feel the wet of the rain, uncomfortable and itchy against his skin.

He was supporting the unconscious boy on his shoulder, and Trevor was on his other side, Sypha leaning against his shoulder. They crossed into the village, then moved into the square. They were about halfway to the inn when they heard a scream. 

Adrian whirled around, startled, just in time to see a woman burst out of the church, throwing the doors open and running towards them. Realizing who she was, Adrian ducked his head, whispered, "Wake now," into the boy's ear, allowing a small bit of magic to trickle into his voice. He stirred, blinking and waking from his magic-induced slumber just as his mother reached his side, sobbing as she folded him into her arms, holding him tightly. 

Her scream had apparently roused some of the people living in the houses nearest to them, and all over the square doors were opening, light spilling from the houses and windows. People were emerging, their voices raised in question, all of them gathering around the five of them—Adrian, Trevor, Sypha, the boy and his mother, all in the center of the tight little knot of people.

"You saved him," the boy's mother said, grasping Adrian's hands in her own. "You saved my boy."

"No, it wasn't me," he said. "It was—"

"I know not how to thank you," she went on, ignoring his protests. "I thought he would be the next one to die, but you saved him. The stories are true. You'll save us all." She looked with wide eyes at Trevor, who looked as stunned as Adrian felt. "It wasn't us who—"

But the people paid them no heed, cheering and stomping and thanking them—Trevor and Adrian, who had done nothing. They broke the circle, coming forward and putting their hands on Adrian's shoulder, on Trevor's arm, their voices a deafening clamor. It was too much, too much emotion permeating the air, seeping into Adrian's chest. 

The boy was the only one who hadn't joined in, his eyes wide and confused. Adrian saw him turn to his mother, heard his voice as he said, "Mother, they're wrong—it wasn't them. It was the girl, the Speaker girl—"

But she wasn't listening to him; no one was. The whole village was awake now, all crowding around them, chanting and yelling, drowning him beneath their happiness and their gratitude, none of which he deserved or earned. He looked around desperately, looking for Sypha, but he only saw Trevor, who was looking back at him, disappointment etched into every line of his face. 

"Wait," he tried to say, but his voice was drowned out by everyone else's screams, their cheers and their misplaced faith. He could only gasp for breath, suffocated by the weight of it all. Finally he caught sight of a flash of blue and strawberry-blonde, and he latched onto her desperately, catching her eye. 

She was at the very edge of the crowd, pushed back by the tangle of arms and legs, borne back by their disbelief that she could do anything to help them. He felt a surge of anger suddenly, at everyone who was smiling at him and touching him and thanking him, wondering why they couldn't see that she was the reason the boy was alive, that she was stronger than him and Trevor in so many ways. 

Their eyes locked, his wide and desperate, hers soft and understanding—how could she be so unruffled by this, the injustice of it all Adrian couldn't fathom. He said her name even though she couldn't hear him, but he knew she could read his lips. She just smiled at him, a sad little smile, one that said, _It's all right; I expected this to happen._

She ducked her head and turned, walking away from the crowd and back towards the caravan on the outskirts of the town, and Adrian called her name, trying to push through the crowd. He was held back, unable to move, and could only watch helplessly as she disappeared from view, turning the corner and vanishing. 

He turned back, and he saw Trevor watching him, expressionless and still even as the crowd pulsed around him, as unmoving as a stone in the river as the water gushed around it. He said nothing, but Adrian knew he understood. 

And so they stood and they watched as the people shouted and cheered and celebrated, the rain doing nothing to dampen their happiness, for a victory that wasn't theirs.

* * *

He didn't mean to be eavesdropping.

He'd been walking down the corridor to his room, and he'd heard his parents' voices filtering in from beneath their door, which was only a few paces from his own. He had thought nothing of it, as they usually stayed up late into the night talking, and he was just moving past when he heard his father say his name. 

He had stopped dead, and while he tried as hard as he could not to listen to what they were saying, his ears strained of their own accord, and soon enough he found himself pressed against the wall outside, beside the door as he listened. 

"He's young, and he's just begun to discover himself," he heard his mother's voice say, softly. "He knows what he's doing."

"Perhaps; but have you asked him what he wishes to do? How he wishes to proceed with his life? He was born with a target painted on his back, Lisa, one that I unknowingly drew there myself."

"Don't blame yourself for the people who may or may not wish well for our son," she said. "You did all you can to raise him with customs from both our lives, and he has grown well, in body and in mind."

"But I do not see in him the fervor he should have," his father said, and he felt his stomach sink. "He knows who he is, but what is he willing to do with that knowledge?"

"Vlad," his mother said softly, "have... have you ever considered that he may not want to follow in your footsteps? That he may wish to act on one side of his life and not the other? Have you asked him what he wants to do, or have you merely assumed he wishes to do what you think is best for him?"

There was a pause. "You think he doesn't wish to?"

"I don't know." He could almost see her take a step back, holding her hands in the air in a gesture of placation. "I am merely suggesting a reason for his hesitation. As his mother, I can sense these things. I know when he's unhappy or dissatisfied."

"And is he?"

Another pause. "I cannot speak for my son," she said, "but I can tell he is not yet ready for this burden."

"And I am not asking him to take the burden now," his father protested. "I merely wish for him to be ready for it when it ultimately rests on his shoulders—"

"I know why you want this to be taken from your grasp as soon as it can be," she said softly, and Adrian felt a pang as she said the words. "I know you know think there is less and less time every day, but I—"

"Do not speak of it," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "I do not wish to think of this now."

"When else will we talk about this?" She sounded exasperated. "I know you fear our time together is limited by my mortality, and neither of us wishes to further a transformation and go to extremes to ensure I live as long as you do. But Adrian will. And I do not know when he will be ready, or if he ever will be. But you must give him time."

"Time," his father said softly, "he and I of which have limitless bounds of, and you do not."

"Yes," she said. "And you must allow him to make use of that time which he has been given by you. I, for one, cannot picture our son living out the rest of his life in a courtroom, presiding over the vampire generals of the world. It seems a tiresome job." A sliver of teasing slipped between her words. 

"Oh, you have no idea." He heard a soft laugh. "I assure you, my love, that I think of only the time I can spend with you once it is over during those sessions."

"You make me swoon," she laughed. 

"I certainly endeavor to, my dear." He heard the rustle of fabric, then a sigh. "Still, I worry. I fear he wishes to escape from the duty I have imposed on him."

"You mean his frequent escapades into the forest?" He heard a creak, most likely as she sat on the bed. "He's distracted, he hardly eats now, and he doesn't sleep." She paused. "I think perhaps he's met someone." There was a hopeful suggestion in her tone. 

_Traitor,_ Adrian thought. 

"What?" His father sounded surprised. "Really?"

"I don't know, he merely seems distracted." Her tone was far too innocent for his liking. "He's vanishing into the forest all those hours, and he says he's training, and I believe him—but sometimes I wonder, is all."

"I don't see what you mean," his father said, and Adrian grinned inwardly at his failure to catch on to what his mother was implying. 

"Oh, you know—he's always in his room, by himself, sketching, and he doesn't let me see what he's drawing; he's sitting in the library more often, daydreaming, and I have to say his name four or five times before he hears; he acts distracted and he's just very... I don't know, but I think he's meeting someone."

Adrian rolled his eyes, shaking his head. That was his mother—ever the romantic. 

"If he is, he'll tell us when he's ready," his father said dismissively. "That's not what I'm worried about—"

"Let him do what he likes for now," she said, a little testily. "Let him get older, let him choose, let him _want_ to choose. Maybe then he'll put his heart into what he does eventually choose, and his happiness is more important than yours when it comes to his life."

Adrian sighed, feeling relief and anxiousness in equal measure tangle in his stomach. Maybe this whole mess would eventually sort itself out after all. 

"You do know listening in on other people's conversation is rude, don't you?"

He lurched back into himself, quickly stepping away from the wall and turning, coming face-to-face with a familiar figure, slender and tall, with a waterfall of silver hair and blue eyes that were as cold as the ice they so resembled. His embarrassment turned at once to resentment, and he scowled. 

"Just as rude as it is to tell someone what to do in their own home," he snapped back. 

"Ooh, touchy touchy," Carmilla tutted, smiling at him. "I assume they were talking about you." She nodded at the door. 

He said nothing. 

"Whatever they were saying, I'm sure you've heard it before," she said, her smile widening. She moved towards him, the sway of her hips beneath the tight fabric of her dress accentuated by her strutting sashay. "From others, and from yourself."

He felt his jaw clench. "You don't know what you're talking about. Stay out of business that doesn't concern you."

"Now whatever have I done to earn the resentment of a pretty young thing like you, hmm?" She stepped forward, completely invading his personal space as she put a finger under his chin. He stood his ground, not giving her the satisfaction of stepping back or shoving her away. 

"Such beauty," she murmured, tilting her head and gazing out at him through heavily hooded eyes. "Ageless and perfect, but still human." She said the word like it was a poison, her nails tracing lightly across his cheek. One sharp movement and she could tear his skin open. 

"What do you want?" he said through gritted teeth. 

"I," she said, leaning closer and closer until her lips all but touched his ear, "want you to stay out of my way, little half-breed. Everyone else may think you're the next big thing, they may think that throne is yours, but we both know that's not true."

He held himself very still as she leaned even closer, the fabric of her dress brushing his ankles. She was just as tall as he was with her heels, and her voice was soft but deadly, like poison spreading in honey, corroding it. "So move away," she said, "and this will work out for both of us."

He scoffed. "And I would rather die than see you sit on that throne," he spat. 

"Wouldn't it be unfortunate if that were to happen," she smirked, turning to face him. She was so close that he could smell her perfume, vanilla and roses. If she drew breath, he would have been able to feel it on his lips. "I won't say it again, _Alucard_. Stay away from that throne."

He turned as well, meeting her gaze. "Or what?"

Her eyes sparked. "Or I let slip to your mother and father that you're fucking the Belmont family's youngest son, _and_ a Speaker magician—at the same time. I imagine that might be just a bit of a shock."

Cold dread spread down his back, his heart clenching. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No?" She smiled at him. "That's a pity, because I happen to be a commander of legions, Alucard. It would be so unfortunate should something happen to one—or both—of them in the middle of the night when no one expects a thing."

He went entirely still, and she went on. "The choice is yours, Alucard. Either you can step down, or you can wave goodbye to little Trevor Belmont and Sypha Belnades." Her lip curled upwards. "I must admit they're both adorable. You have good... taste." Her tongue traced over the tip of one of her fangs and he felt revulsion and hatred make his fists clench. 

"If you so much as look at them, I'll kill you," he said, and his voice was a near-growl. "I swear I'll kill you."

"How sweet." Her fingers curled around his wrist, biting into his skin. "You've found yourself two pets. Following in your father's footsteps, I suppose. Only he has one, not two."

He felt blind rage suffuse his vision with red, and the next thing he knew he was standing with Carmilla pinned against the wall opposite, holding her by the throat. He was breathing hard, fury making his blood boil and his mind stop working. He just wanted her to bleed for what she'd said about his mother.

"Shut up," he hissed. "Just shut up—don't ever speak about my mother like you know her. She's thrice the woman you'll ever be."

She grinned at him, a grin full of fangs, even as his fingers dug into her throat. "I thought so," she said, and then her palm came up and slammed into his chest, sending him flying backwards. He caught himself before he could hit the wall, managing not to fall over, unable to breathe. Carmilla was standing over him, a hand on her hip. 

She knelt beside him, her eyes flat and hard. "Get the memo, pretty boy?" 

"So... what?" He gasped for breath. "Just to get what you want, you'll do all of this? For something you could earn respect for but never can?"

"Let me think..." She made a mocking show of thinking hard, then grinned at him. "Yes."

"How do you know about them?" He didn't have to say who. 

She shrugged. "You're remarkably easy to follow. After I got wind of who it was you were meeting with, it was as simple as gathering information about them. Of course, I have no idea what you do with all your time in the forest, but I have enough already, wouldn't you say?" 

He felt a small spark of relief. So she didn't know about the killings, the woman in the forest. He hoped it would stay that way. If she ever found out about it, he didn't know what would happen. Knowing Carmilla, it wouldn't be anything good.

She stood again, dusting off the front of her dress. "Now then," she said. "Now that this is all cleared up, I'll be on my way." She looked down at him dispassionately. "I hope you keep my words in mind, Alucard. Because I don't like to think what'll happen if you don't."

With that she strutted away, her hair rippling down her back like a nest of silver serpents as she rounded the corner and disappeared from view, leaving him kneeling on the floor, dread writhing in his stomach.

* * *

Sypha was sitting beside him on the table, swinging her legs. They were in the old barn again, waiting for Trevor, who still hadn't arrived. 

He'd tried to bring up what had happened the previous night, but she had brushed it off, not allowing him to go on. She had insisted they talk about more important things—but he hadn't said that he thought this was as important as anything else that was happening. So instead they spoke of what they might do that day, why Trevor could be late, if perhaps he had gotten held up at home. 

They had eventually gotten down to practicing resisting Adrian's glamour, and he had found that he expended much less energy this time, as if his body was conserving it, realizing his limits and exercising control over them. Sypha was getting stronger too, and had broken free this time. 

They had tried again and again until Adrian could barely stand, and he had braved the moldy-looking table at the side. Sypha had joined him a few moments later, and they were waiting in companionable silence. 

"So," Sypha said, "I was wondering if we should tell Trevor about... well—us."

He coughed, alarmed. "What? Tell Trevor? About us?"

Her eyes crinkled with concern. "No? Not a good idea?"

He felt a sort of half-incredulous panic bubble in his chest. He was really digging himself into a bigger and bigger hole every day. "I don't think so," he said finally. "Maybe a little later."

She shrugged. "Okay."

He bit his lip, looking down at his hands. So now he was in a relationship with Sypha... and Trevor... at the same time, and neither of them knew about his relationship with the other. 

He was _fucked_.

Just as he thought it, the door burst open, and a very out-of-breath Trevor spilled into the room, sweat sticking his hair to his brow and his cloak half-slipping off his shoulders. Sypha and Adrian leaped to their feet as he bent double, his hands braced on his knees as he gasped for breath. 

"What happened?" Sypha demanded as they reached his side, and he waved a hand, standing, his cheeks flushed with exertion. "I... I got... in," he said in between heaving breaths. "I can... get us... in."

"What?" Adrian frowned. "Trevor, you're not making any sense."

He exhaled, then said more clearly, "I got it. I know how to get into the Hold." He looked at them both, his jaw set and his eyes glittering. "If we move fast, we can make it."

Sypha's eyes widened. "What?"

Trevor's lips kicked up into a smile. "We're going in," he said. "Tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone else feel like 'Speechless' from Aladdin fits SO WELL for Sypha?? Because I think it does.


	12. Clovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Clovers:** _Luck, discovery, the sudden uncovering of something unexpected and welcomed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, this is early!!! Next chapter will take a while though, since I now have bucketloads of never-ending work to do. :(
> 
> Also this chapter is pure Belmont Hold, because world-building. And also because I love that goddamn library and want to live there.

**_Trevor_ **

He heard a twig snap behind him. 

"Sorry," hissed Sypha from a few paces away, and he heard the rustle of fabric as she righted herself. "I can't see a thing, it's so dark; if I could just make a little fire we can—"

"No," Trevor hissed back. "The guards will see us coming a mile away."

He heard her grumble something about whether the guards were vampires, but she didn't protest. He rolled his eyes, but it was hidden by the dark as they moved forward, Trevor navigating solely by force of memory and habit; he couldn't count the number of times he'd come this way, gone this way. 

He felt something soft brush against his leg and looked down to see Adrian in his wolf form, blinking large, lupine golden eyes at him. He'd volunteered to scout ahead, since that way anyone or anything that saw him would just assume he was a regular wolf moving through the forest. 

"Anything?" he asked, quietly.

The wolf shook its head, nudging his leg with the tip of its nose. It gave a soft whining noise, looking up at him with huge, hopeful puppy-dog eyes. Its red tongue lolled out from between its lips as it looked at him, trotting along beside him. 

"What?" He frowned down at it and it nudged him again, its massive white tail wagging hopefully. 

"Oh my God," said Trevor. "You want me to give you an ear rub?"

His tail wagged again.

"Think you can win me over with that sad puppy face?" He snorted. "Think again, Fluffbutt." He reached down and poked him in the side, encountering about a solid foot of fur that was surprisingly warm and soft. 

Adrian growled, nipping his leg lightly and moving ahead again. Trevor rolled his eyes but followed, knowing he had to rely on Adrian's now-heightened sense of smell and sight. If there was anyone—or anything—lurking in the shadows, then they'd have a heads-up—not to mention they also had 175 pounds of killer instinct and three-inch fangs to back them up. 

They had only been walking a couple more minutes when Adrian returned again, padding soundlessly out of the shadows. There was a flash of gold and white, and Adrian got to his feet, once again in his human form. He nodded towards the trees, a hand on his blade. 

"You're right, there are guards ahead," he said. "I'll distract them, you two can get inside."

"Way ahead of you," Trevor said. "There's a gap in the wall, that's how I get in and out every night. It's all covered in bushes and stuff, but if you can get through, there's nobody patrolling there since it's just the wall that faces the bedrooms." He paused. "Also my mother would murder anyone who ruins her rosebushes, so it might be that too."

"Yes, but there's three of us," Adrian said. "Usually there's only you who gets through. We're too visible, too wide open. And the skies are clear tonight, which means the moonlight can betray us as easily as it can give us passage." He turned, the wind rippling through his hair like a curtain of silvered gold. "You two can slip through, I'll join you on the other side in a few minutes."

"Fine," Trevor said. "I'll go first; Sypha, follow me. Adrian, do what you have to, just don't kill the poor guys, they're just doing their job."

Adrian's grin was a flash of white fangs in the dark. "I'll do my best," he said. And with that he shifted again, once again taking the form of a wolf in a flash of light. He shot away, a mere blur of silver and gold, leaving only a wisp of steam curling from the ground where he'd just been standing. 

Trevor waited one second; then three; then five—

He heard shouts and the hiss of leather on steel as weapons were drawn, and Adrian's low, rippling growl. He moved away from the trees, Sypha right behind him as they reached the compound wall. Trevor moved along it, counting until he reached the right slab, whereupon he shoved the curtain of creepers aside, ducking through the gap. 

Sypha squeezed through seconds after, and they both pressed themselves against the wall, holding their breath. He could still hear muffled shouting and growls, then the unmistakable patter of paws running towards the forest. A second later, all was still. 

"Where is he?" Sypha breathed. 

As if on cue, Adrian dropped silently to the ground beside them, landing in a perfect crouch. He stood, facing them, and calmly dusted off his coat. He didn't have a hair out of place, and he wasn't even out of breath. He looked indescribably smug at the stunned looks on their faces, the slightest of smirks flitting across his face. 

"How the fuck did you do that?" Trevor craned his neck to look up at the wall, topped with broken glass and barbed wire to prevent climbing. It was at least twenty feet tall—and completely impossible to climb. Or so it seemed. 

Adrian's smirk widened, and Trevor couldn't decide whether he wanted to punch him or kiss him. "Oh, just a bit of this and a bit of that," he said loftily. "It was remarkably easy, actually." 

"You _climbed_ the wall." It wasn't a question.

His glittering golden eyes slid to Trevor's. "Yes. And?"

He rolled his eyes, shouldering past Adrian with a muttered, "Bastard," for good measure as he did. He heard a soft laugh, and he hid his grin in the shadows as they crept forward, sticking to the walls as he guided them towards the front of the house. 

"I can tell why your mother would murder whoever touches her roses," whispered Sypha as they edged around the bushes, which were in full bloom, a riot of color even when drenched in silver moonlight. Each blossom was as large as his fist, their stems drooping with the weight of it. 

Adrian was looking around as well, even if he'd already been here once before, apparently fascinated by the uniformity of the nature around them. He was trailing soft, exploratory fingers over the pruned bushes, the tamed creepers, the cut roses. His eyes were curious but watchful, pale silver underneath the moonlight. 

"Okay," Trevor exhaled as they inched towards the front of the house. "Here comes the tricky part." He peered out from the corner, at the spotless grounds that were flayed wide open, the gates still and silent in the midnight air. He could see the faint outlines of the guards, their backs facing the iron bars.

He turned back to Sypha and Adrian. "Right," he said. "I couldn't unlock the front door from outside before leaving the house, so getting in should be hard—we'll have to go through the window at the front. But we need to get to the door first, which might be a little difficult seeing as it'll leave us wide open—"

"A little?" echoed Sypha in a furious whisper, peeking out from the corner, eyes wide. "They're going to see us."

"Not if we move fast, and one after the other." His teeth tugged at his lower lip. "All you have to do is run as fast as you can, as quietly as you can."

Adrian looked thoughtful. "I could distract the guards again."

"Too risky. If they see you again they'll single you out, and then we'll have a whole lot of other problems. You're not exactly a generic-looking wolf."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Right." He turned back to face both of them. "So all we have to do is move out into the open, manage to get to the front door without tripping the alarm, catching the attention of the guards, or making enough noise to wake anyone up, then get to the front door, also without making any noise, and then get inside through the window to the right to douse the lights and unlock the door from inside, then wait for the others."

He took a deep breath, raising a hopeful eyebrow at their stunned faces. "All right," he said. "So who wants to go first?"

Sypha and Adrian were both grinning a little, twin looks of amusement he didn't particularly like the look of. They both glanced at each other, just for a second, then looked back at him. Both their little smiles had widened. He was liking this less and less by the second. 

"Well..." Sypha said, biting her lip and glancing at Adrian again. "It's _your_ house."

Adrian nodded vigorously, his eyes alight with mischief. "It'd be so much easier if you did it so that we can step where you step and follow you." He gave Trevor a little push. "Go on, we're right behind you," he said. 

"You're both evil, you know that?" he sighed, poking his head around the corner again. All seemed tranquil, but he knew how fast things could go south if he messed up even a tiny bit. Why did his house of all places have to be so heavily guarded? He wondered what exactly was down in that basement, not for the first time. 

"Okay, I'm going." He turned back around for a moment. "If something goes wrong, you two need to get the hell out of here. Same way we came in."

Sypha's eyes gleamed a pale blue in the moonlight. "I would say something about how no matter what happens, we won't leave you behind," she said. "But..." She shrugged, tilting her head to the side with a small smile. "That'd be sort of pointless, right? Since you live here and all."

He snorted, moving to the edge of the wall. "Wow. You two can really pep talk. You know that, don't you?"

"So I'm told," Adrian said, loosening his blade from its sheath. He raised his eyes, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. "Just go, Trevor, or we'll be here all night."

He raised a hand without turning back, sticking out his middle finger in Adrian's general direction. He moved out from behind the wall and the last thing he heard was Sypha's soft laugh before he stepped out into the open. 

He could hear the faint strains of conversation filtering from the gates, and he took it as a bonus—now he had an alarm of sorts if he was discovered. As long as the guards kept talking, he was safe and undiscovered. _Breaking into my own house,_ he thought, and it was part amusement and part disgruntlement. _What has my life become?_

Being used to sneaking out of the house for almost ten years running, he knew how to move quietly, and he knew exactly where to step so he wouldn't be seen or heard or noticed, and where there would be no evidence of his passing. But walking brazenly in a widely flayed-open area was practically begging to be caught. 

He got to the door easily enough, which wasn't the problem. The problem was the window. 

He'd unlatched it from the inside before going out, which meant he could pry it open pretty easily. But getting inside without attracting attention was seeming more and more impossible the longer he stared at it. For one thing, it was a fairly long drop to the bottom; the sill was pretty high up. Secondly, the stupid hinges would creak if he opened it. And to top it all off, it opened from the bottom, so it he wasn't careful, the end would fall and split his head open. 

He took a deep breath and breathed a silent curse towards where Adrian and Sypha were most likely giggling behind the wall in shared delight at his misfortune, then slid the window upwards. 

It glided upwards with a soft creak and he stopped immediately, wincing as he held it in place. The conversation from the gates faltered—Trevor held his breath—then resumed a moment later. He exhaled, hoisting himself up onto the windowsill, swinging his legs onto the other side so that he was half-leaning outside. He leaned further out backwards, then waved at the wall, gesturing. 

The moment he saw a flash of movement he ducked inside fully, slowly sliding the window shut again. The moment it rested and the lock clicked quietly he jogged to the door, slowly pulling the latches and locks, sliding the bolts from their homes and carefully pulling the door open just a crack. 

Just as he did Sypha slid between the two doors, nearly bumping into him. She made a startled little "Oh!" sound, a cute little squeak of surprise as she moved back a step. She straightened immediately, her eyes huge and dark in the dimness of the hall. "Sorry," she whispered. "I can't seem to stop bumping into you."

"I don't exactly mind," he said, grinning a little. And to his own surprise as much as it probably was Sypha's, he meant it. "It's nice to know I sweep you off your feet."

She snorted, the corner of her lips flicking upwards as she rolled her eyes. "Oh, please," she said. "Don't flatter yourself." But she was smiling anyway, her fingers twisting in the sleeve of her robes. She caught his eye and looked away quickly, biting her lip. 

Before the silence that hung between them could get too awkward Adrian slid through the door, soundless and lithe as usual. If he could feel the frankly palpable tension in the air he said nothing of it, merely raised a single eyebrow. He shut the door ever so softly behind him, and it slid closed without a sound. 

He turned to face them, his skin leached of color in the dark moonlight spilling into the hall from the windows. His features were rendered almost artfully in the alternating dark and light, shadows pooling between the sharp contours of his face. He looked like one of those paintings of angels that hung in the library, a study in black and white and gold. 

"So now where do we go?" Sypha whispered. 

Trevor moved towards the stairs, anticipation making his heart race. _"The path of life leads upward for the prudent to keep them from going down to the realm of the dead,"_ he said softly, almost to himself. He turned back around, just for a moment. 

He felt a humorless smile twist his lips as he gazed down at the yawning mouth of the stairs, a passage that descended into darkness. "So down it is we go."

* * *

They descended the steps in silence, their footfalls on the worn stone echoing faintly in the stairwell.

It was dark, the lamps that lines the curving wall all long since dried. He could see the oil that had once lit them crusted around the edges, the glass discolored and smeared with black grease. Their iron tapers had rust inching up their surfaces, the dull red of it incongruous among the dull gray of the stone that surrounded it, almost startling. The same way a splash of blood in the snow drew the eye, or the eyes of a wolf in the forest gleamed in the dark. 

There was a small flame cradled in Sypha's fingers, just bright enough that he could see the next two steps ahead of him. It cast eerie shadows on the walls, curving spindly shadows that rippled and guttered when the fire flickered. Her fingers were closed loosely around the little lick of fire as if to contain it, and it glowed in her palm from between the bars of its cage. 

He'd never been down here, though the staircase was open in the hall, always dark and enticing. Nobody was allowed to go into the basement since what was down there could result in, in the most optimistic of situations, the church murdering everyone in the house. 

Of course they all knew what was down there—it was sort of their family's version of a moral story or a fable in the way that his parents always told him to go down there and there were dangerous things in that library and that if they ever tried to open the locked basement door then they'd get grounded for a month. He'd always wondered what could be so bad about a legacy that was so proud, one that actually helped the people, but he'd never said a word aloud.

And now he was finally going down there, seeing for himself exactly what the church would prosecute them all for. He had to admit the prospect of it was sort of exciting and all, but then again if his mother ever found out, he was going to be in big enough trouble that even the woman in the forest wouldn't be able to compare.

The air grew colder and colder as they moved downwards, and finally after fifty steps or so the floor leveled, then after a short passage terminated in a large, imposing wooden door set with an iron knocker in the shape of a demon's head with a massive metal ring clutched between its fangs. A small iron sword with the Belmont crest etched into its tiny hilt was driven directly through the demon's forehead.

The same crest etched on the little sword was hammered in brass on the front of the door, glinting in the swaying firelight. There was no keyhole in sight, merely another huge iron ring attached to the wood where the handle should have been. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, tall and broad and gleaming with age and neglect. 

"How do we open it?" Adrian's voice was soft, but it still echoed in the passage, his voice passing back and forth between the stone walls as if they were whispering to each other. It melted away seconds later, like ice into water. 

"Apparently no key was ever made for this door," Trevor said, running a finger along the cold iron of the miniature demon head. The sculptor must have been skilled—they had even captured the look of agony on its face at the sword driven through its brain, the beginnings of blood trickling from the wound. 

"They say there's a magic on it that allows the touch of only a Belmont to open it." He reached a hand out, his fingers encircling the cold metal of the iron ring. It squealed on rusted hinges as he yanked it up, pulling it towards him. 

There was a deep rumbling noise as the door gave, and he felt the metal of the ring beneath his hand vibrate with the force with which it was opening. It slowly opened outwards, and a blast of frigid air swept out from inside. He shivered as it hit his skin, seeping through his clothes as the back of the door touched the outer wall, now fully open.

All he could see beyond was darkness. 

"Is this it?" Sypha whispered after a pause. 

"I... don't know," he whispered back. "I don't think so." He had no idea why they were whispering, since they were far beyond anyone in the house's earshot, but it sort of felt safer to whisper, and he didn't much like the way their voices echoed in the small passage. "Make your fire bigger, I think we're going to need the light."

She unfurled her fingers, and the fire in her palm swelled, the light it emitted expanding. He could see both of them properly now, Sypha and Adrian. They were both looking at him with identically unreadable expressions on their faces. He looked back at the looming darkness, took a deep breath, and walked inside. 

It was like walking into an ocean after dark—the same freezing, repressive darkness swathed him instantly, so thick that he felt blinded. He couldn't see a thing, not even when he squinted hard. He wondered idly when the last time anyone had come down here was. Forty years ago? Fifty? More?

The thought had just passed through his head when his foot struck something hard and protruding on the ground. Unable to find purchase and unable to see anything around him he overbalanced, nearly falling over as his center of gravity shifted and tilted. He heard himself swear mostly out of reflex as he tripped, the epithet echoing in the stone room—which was small, judging from the way his voice rang through the air, the walls flinging it back and forth.

He felt something grab him by the collar and yank him back, steadying him. He stumbled backwards, half-regaining balance and half-falling, directly onto something solid, warm and soft, something that smelled like peppermint and—chocolate?

"Careful," Sypha's voice said in his ear, the warmth of her breath stirring his hair. "Or it won't just be you sweeping me off my feet."

He stood hastily, irritated to find he was blushing as he did, yanking his cloak back in place from where it had slipped off his shoulder. Honestly, she was only just a girl. A really smart, funny, pretty girl who could knock him on his ass if she wanted to. Not that that wasn't a good thing. Or a bad thing. Or—

The room flooded with light, causing his confused train of thought to derail spectacularly and crash in a fiery wreck. He'd been right; the room was a small one, windowless and cold. He could see the bright, concentrated ball of flame curled in Sypha's hand, a warm orange glow radiating from it, spreading to every corner. 

He could now see what he'd tripped over, rendered clearly in the brightness of the fire. It was a large, flat piece of stone, cut in a flawless square and plated with gold that hadn't flaked off or bent in the last few decades it had been abandoned here. His family crest in all its familiar glory was etched into the surface, along with several other sigils he didn't recognize. 

There was silence. 

_"That's_ the door," Trevor said finally, helpfully.

Adrian crouched down beside it, shaking off one of his gloves and running a finger along the gleaming surface. "It doesn't look like one, though I suppose that's the point of it," he murmured, bracing an elbow on his knee as he looked up at Trevor and Sypha. "But how do we open it? Not the touch of a Belmont thing again, is it?"

"Doubt it." Trevor knelt beside Adrian, frowning down at the door. "I'm pretty sure you can only use that trick once without seeming uncreative and boring."

Adrian rolled his eyes. "So you don't know how to open it?"

Trevor blinked at the door, tugging at an errant lock of hair that fell over his eyes. "Honestly? I didn't think we'd even make it this far."

"Oh, that's just fabulous." Adrian sighed expansively, a finger tracing one of the elaborate runes on the metal below. "We're here, but we can't open the door. Didn't you manage to find out how to over the last week?"

"It's not like I can go up to my parents and just ask them how to open the super-secret magic door that I'm not allowed to go near," he said, stung. "And all the books about anything even remotely taboo is stuffed down there. How on earth was I supposed to find out how to get it open?"

"Well, maybe—"

"Oh, stop bickering like an old married couple," Sypha said, crouching down between Trevor and Adrian, who both immediately shut up. She placed a hand on the door, brows furrowed as she examined it thoroughly. They were both looking at her expectantly as she did, her lips shaping soundless words as her eyes traveled over the runes and symbols hammered into the gold. 

"Oh," she said finally, and it was on an exhale of almost surprise. "No wonder your family insists on hiding all this from the church."

"Why? What is it?" The words tumbled over each other in his haste to say them, his pulse racing beneath his skin. She turned her head to look at him, a sort of hesitant resignation in her face. "Well... it opens with magic," she said haltingly. 

There was a pause. "Okay," Trevor said, drawing the word out. "I think we already knew that."

She rolled her eyes. "Not just ordinary magic, like what I can do. This isn't textbook magic." Her fingers brushed over the door as she shook her head. "It's dark. Occult. Very nearly Black Magic, but not quite." She stood up, shaking her sleeves back. "I can open it," she said in answer to their unspoken question. "But I need space."

She swiveled around to look at them, waving her hands. "Go on, shoo," she said. "Move back."

Trevor and Adrian exchanged a glance as they stood, stepping behind Sypha as she raised her hands. She shut her eyes, bringing her palms together, and a brilliant ray of light so white it was almost blue erupted from her joined hands, cascading over the door in waves. He heard her speak, words in a language so ancient and forgotten that they colored the air with the sound of their power, the rawness of the magic they evoked. 

Sypha spread her arms wide, and the light slicing from her palms coalesced, morphing into a dazzling pair of wings as they latched onto the door, where he could see the symbols and runes glowing with a blinding light. She spoke one last command, and swept her arms upward like a dancer, her sleeves falling back in elegant folds around her elbows. He could see the faint indents of bandages below the tight black sleeves she wore beneath, thought with a faint pang that the burns still hadn't fully healed yet, that her skin was still cracked and regenerating. 

There was a final blinding flash, and Trevor looked away before it could sear his vision, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard a rushing, beating sound, like the flight of some great dragon, and then silence.

He lowered his arm from his eyes, blinking, and was met with the sight of a staircase leading in and down, the door having vanished completely. It was dark and full of creeping shadows that almost seemed alive, crawling and writhing and coiling in on itself like the serpentine whorls of a snake. 

Adrian moved forward to stand by Trevor, gazing down the stairs with a guardedly amused look on his face. He glanced at Trevor, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side. _"Facilis descensus averno,"_ he said, his soft voice lilting musically. "Easy is the descent into hell."

* * *

It was a long way down. 

The loosely winding staircase seemed never-ending, plunging deeper and deeper into the earth below his home. It seemed so strange, that a mile above his head his parents and sisters lay sleeping, blissfully unaware of what lay beneath them, centuries' worth of history and pride. 

Everywhere the eye could see the Belmont crest was woven into tapestries, stitched into carpets, etched into walls. He felt oddly like a living relic of the place, with the same symbol glinting in embossed gold on his chest and stretching across his back—and the blood of the people who had built the place running through his veins. 

Sypha and Adrian were silent, both looking around as they moved down, and down, and down. Finally after what felt like years, the stairs stopped, opening into a richly carpeted hall whose walls were draped with tapestries and fixed with intricate iron lamps. And directly ahead of them lay the door. 

It was, if possible, even more large and impressive than the first door into the basement, heavy and padlocked. The silence between the three of them stretched on as Trevor placed a hand on it, grasping the handle and turning it with a loud screech and a burst of rust, allowing it to open slowly. 

He could see shadows beyond, and he could smell dust and wood and paper. The flame in Sypha's fingers sprang to life again, and as they walked forward he could see shapes and suggestions rise from the dark, the hint of what could have been a railing in front of him, a slice of light that could have been a shelf. 

He saw the ball of fire in Sypha's hand detach itself from her skin, floating upwards into the air. It swelled, growing bigger and bigger, then shot further into the room, latching onto the lamps that lined the shelves and walls. They caught, then began to burn, spreading and mixing, flooding the whole of the Belmont Hold with their light. 

And Trevor laid eyes on his family's heritage for the first time.

It all leaped out at him at once—a library so large it dwarfed the biggest hall in the house, one with shelves that towered far above his head and had levels upon levels with ladders perched precariously on their surfaces; racks upon racks of spoils, weapons, objects his ancestors had collected over the years, sitting behind dusty glass; tomes and archives and bestiaries and dictionaries and years upon years of history and knowledge and pride. 

It was a room so huge it couldn't even be called so—it was more of a separate space of its own, a labyrinth beneath his house having grown there like a second skin, stretching underneath the ground. That for his whole life he'd lived above this place, but not knowing what it was like jarred him. 

"So... so many _books,"_ Sypha breathed, looking openly amazed by the overwhelming sight before her. "It's... it's so much." She raced to the railing then started down the steps, where she fetched up in an aisle of bookshelves. She immediately slid a tome from the shelf nearest to her and opened it, looking hungrily down into the pages. 

Adrian followed more slowly, his jaw set and his face closed as he took it all in. Trevor knew that it'd be a hostile place for him, being half-vampire and surrounded by vampire-killing memorabilia. He showed no sign of emotion, however, as he moved forward, stepping down from the steps and casting a glance back at where Sypha was leafing through a book written in Latin. He turned, then almost decisively went the other way, disappearing among the racks of glass display cases. 

Trevor knew to give him the space he needed, knowing how Adrian could be cold and almost defensive whenever he wanted to be left alone. So he turned, moving instead towards where Sypha was standing, having abandoned the Latin book and was now moving through the shelves with an awestruck look on her face. 

"It's all so perfectly organized and cataloged," she breathed, looking almost dizzy with joy. "And it's so much lovelier than that little closet back in the village." She slid another book from a shelf, glanced at the title, then promptly shoved it into Trevor's arms. "Here, hold this," she said absently, moving along the shelves. 

He followed obediently, tilting his head to read the titles of the books embossed on their spines as he passed them. There were plenty in his native Romanian, and there was French, which he was fluent in; Latin, which he was also fluent in. And then there were hundreds of other languages he'd never even heard of, and some he had but didn't know—Enochian and Greek and Adamic, Chaldaic and Arabic and Sanskrit. 

Sypha appeared to be able to read them all; she was muttering to herself as she flitted around the place like a butterfly, never lingering anywhere. He was following her about in a rather hopeless sort of fashion, like a lost puppy. Occasionally she would make a little pleased sound and remove a book from its place, skim through it, then dump it in Trevor's arms. He had a considerable pile of them already, all balanced one on top of the other. 

Adrian was nowhere to be found, though presumably he was lurking about somewhere like a thundercloud, sweeping among the display cases with his nose turned up. Although Trevor couldn't exactly blame him for it, he should've been at least expecting it to some degree. But then again Adrian had no idea how ruthless the Belmont family had been back in the day... 

"Trevor? Sypha?" It was Adrian's voice, floating towards them from some faraway corner. His tone was unreadable. "I think I've found something of interest. You may want to come and see this."

Sypha caught Trevor's eye and he shrugged in response to her quizzical expression. They both fell into step beside each other as they moved towards Adrian's voice, Trevor still toting along all the books Sypha had handed him. They finally found the dhampir standing in front of a wall, a hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword at his waist and his feet slightly apart and one behind the other, like a defense position. 

It was something Trevor had picked out in all the weeks they'd known each other, one of the little oddities that he exhibited, the odd quirks of his personality and the specifics of his body language and his tone. If he was upset he withdrew, if he was angry he smoldered silently and poked at the recipient of his wrath verbally with a hot poker, and if he was afraid or uneasy, he'd stand like he was ready for a fight—with a hand on his sword and his feet apart for balance.

Trevor immediately felt his shoulders tighten, and he felt his pulse quicken, anticipation and apprehension blending uneasily in his stomach. Sypha seemed to have noticed it too; her steps quickened, and he saw her brows knit as they drew up to Adrian, who was looking up at something fixed to the wood of the wall in front of them. 

It was a tapestry of the Belmont family tree, and a massive one at that—one that began all the way from the original Belmonts who'd lived in France. His eyes passed over their names, the small, intricate portraits above them. They were all strong old-fashioned people, with heavy dark eyes and thick curls of hair, and they were strong old-fashioned names, too— _Vauquelin_ and _Melisende_ and _Jehanne_. 

Once the familiar striking blond portrait of Leon Belmont entered the frame, the tree grew more familiar, more close to home. He saw noblewomen with his sisters' names, almost all of them. He recognized his grandparents' grandparents, their children and their children's children. His mother's name, repeated almost thrice, his grandfather's name, all familiar to him. 

"I don't see your name," Adrian said, interrupting his thoughts and bringing him out of his reverie. He turned to look at him, and he was gazing back curiously, a golden eyebrow raised. 

"What?"

He nodded at the tapestry. "Surely all you noble families reuse names over the span of a generation or two. I certainly see a few familiar names, like your mother's." He nodded at one of the many Maries on the tapestry. "But you don't seem to be named for anyone in the family, nor does your name sound even remotely French." He turned liquid gold eyes to Trevor. "Why is that?"

He shrugged, pointing at Leon's portrait. "You see that guy? He's probably the most important ancestor I've got, since he's the one who started hunting and came down here from France looking for Mathias Cronqvist—"

Adrian let out a little cough. 

"—and he's the one who declared war on all of the night," Trevor went on. "Anyway, Leon—that's his name—he traveled here with a good friend of his, a Celt whose name was Trefor. Apparently he was important and valued highly enough to warrant honoring his memory by naming me after him."

The corner of Sypha's mouth lifted in a little smile. "Trefor?"

Adrian cleared his throat pointedly. "Moving on," he said, stepping forward. "The tree ends abruptly, since a hundred years ago the church issued its ultimatum against your family. They abandoned this thing here, so it stops exactly at the point where they packed this place up and left it to gather dust."

He walked up to the tapestry, placing a contemplative hand on the thick fabric. "And the woman, her story happened around two hundred years ago, and the first attack on the village a century after."

"Yes," Sypha said after a pause, and she sounded like she was catching on to what he was getting at. "So that means—"

"That means we can see who she was, what her name was," Trevor finished. "We can find out who she is."

"Right," said Adrian, his eyes feverishly bright. "And look at this." He pointed upwards, and following his line of sight Trevor saw a portrait that had been slashed across and cut as if with a sword and then burned with an iron and disfigured beyond repair, one that was dated exactly—

"Two hundred years ago," Sypha finished softly. "That has to be her."

Trevor's eyes slid to the name sewn below the ugly burn mark that was all that remained of her face, the letters undamaged. "Aalis Belmont," he read aloud. 

There was silence. 

"So that's her name," Adrian said. "It has to be."

"If they burned her off the family tree," Sypha said softly, "that means they must have gotten rid of everything else related to her in this place. Archives, records, diaries. We may never know more about her, or what she did."

"I think we know enough," Trevor said. "She fell in love with someone she wasn't supposed to, and my family were orthodox back then—like really, _really_ chop-off-your-head-for-eating-what-you-want sort of orthodox. It was fucking crazy."

"And then they murdered her," Adrian said musingly, his eyes hard. "They cursed the land where she was buried. And now she's here for revenge."

"But what took her so long?" Trevor asked, shaking his head. He was unable to tear his eyes away from the black smear where Aalis' portrait had been painstakingly sewn with love and care and affection, only to be burned and slashed off with just as much hatred and revulsion. 

"Not that I'm complaining that she only started murdering people a hundred years after she died," he amended, finally looking away from the tapestry, "but it seems strange. How come she rose from her grave only a century later?"

"I don't know exactly," Sypha said slowly, as if she were forming her thoughts as she spoke. "But I have a theory about how she could have become what she is now. This forest they buried her in, the one outside..." She bit her lip, her eyes cloudy and far away, like the sky far above. "There's something about it," she said. 

"Something magical?" Adrian supplied. 

She nodded, twisting her fingers together. "I noticed it the first time I came here, and almost every day after. It's not just Aalis who exudes the magic that covers the place. One entity, no matter how powerful, can't charge the air around a whole forest almost two hundred miles wide. There's something about the place that I think changed her, kept her from dying completely, and turned the remnants of her sadness and bitterness into the wraith we see today."

"That's it," Trevor said, feeling his mouth go dry as his brain connected the invisible lines, slowly making the hazy picture clearer. "That's got to be it. That process probably took time, and the force of her emotion must've been really strong if it turned her like this."

"Now all that's left is finding out the name of the creature she's turned into in all that time," Adrian said thoughtfully, tapping a finger on the tapestry and gazing up at it with a softly contemplative expression on his face. "Which, considering the breadth of knowledge about killing things in this place, shouldn't be hard."

He turned almost challenging eyes to Trevor, who let this one slide in, according to him, an extraordinarily magnanimous show of patience and tolerance. "Right," was all he said. "It's just like any regular hunt. Find out what it is, find out its weaknesses, gather them and hunt it down."

Sypha clapped her hands together, flashing a surprisingly evil grin at them both. "Then let's get down to searching, shall we?"

* * *

He found himself kneeling among a pile of books stacked around him, a huge volume in his hands. 

He didn't know exactly when and how he'd come to be in this position; Adrian had swept off the instant they'd begun to search, disappearing into the shelves within seconds and giving off very clear 'don't follow me' vibes. So Trevor had, still carting along those books Sypha had dumped on him, done the only logical thing that had come to mind. 

Which was follow her. 

Not that he minded; he'd actually started to like her, but he'd never say it aloud. She was kneeling beside him, and both of them were flipping through the books, find nothing, then place it on the ground. Over the last few hours, they'd created a veritable mountain around them. 

"So," she said presently, looking up from her own huge tome with a mischievous glint in her eye and a little grin on her face. "Trefor, huh?"

He sighed. "Sadly. It's terrible."

"Tre _for."_ She rolled the name on her tongue, her accent flattening the _t_ and rolling the _r_. "Trefor... so does that mean I can call you Tref?"

He choked. "Sorry, what?"

"No? Too short, you're right." She made a show of pretending to think hard, then leaned over, her grin widening. "Treffy?" she asked. 

"Oh my _God_ , no." He looked away, feeling an invisible force tug his lips into a smile despite the heat in his cheeks. 

She laughed—a clear, electrifying sound that made it really hard to look away from her. Her hair was in disarray, her cheeks flushed and her eyes tired, but there was a sort of never-depleting energy around her, one that could've powered all of Wallachia. She glanced up at him, her eyes glittering. 

"You," she announced, "are Treffy now."

"Don't," he said, and he tried as hard as he could to sound serious, but it came out as half a laugh, and then she was giggling, leaning back against the shelf as she did—and Trevor found himself laughing with her, harder than he had in weeks. It might have had something to do with the fact that they were both tired and sleep-deprived and stressed from all that had happened, but somehow he didn't think so. 

They finally sobered, both of them leaning their heads against the shelf behind them. There was a comfortable silence between them that he welcomed, just a moment of peace amidst the blur of what his life had become since all this had started. And of course he didn't care about the way their knees were brushing ever so slightly, nor did he care about the fact that her hand was half-resting on his arm. And her touch absolutely did _not_ make little sparks travel beneath his skin. 

It was probably her magic, anyway. Not that he felt it all that acutely or anything. 

He tossed the book he was holding onto the growing pile before them, and just to give himself something to do, he picked up another, flipping aimlessly through it and trying as hard as he could not to focus on the sound of Sypha's soft, regular breathing next to him and the warmth of her skin through her robes. 

_Adrian. Think of Adrian._ Adrian had kissed him yesterday, and they'd both been sober. And it had been a hell of a kiss, too. Sypha probably didn't know about him and Adrian, and he didn't want to tell her just yet. But for some reason, thinking about Adrian did little to distract him. 

He heard the distant chime of a clock strike three, a deep, rich toll. He wondered how on earth it could still be working after all the decades it had lain here, in disuse. It was probably activated by something, something external that triggered the gears that had sat rusting for so long to begin turning again. He flipped another page, blindly. 

Then he stopped and stared. 

His heart skipped a couple of beats as his eyes roved over the pages, the drawings inked into the margins. It wasn't a book, not really—it was more of a journal, a travelogue of sorts, or a handwritten bestiary. It was written in a scrawling, faded hand. There were scratched words in every other sentence, and the ink was faded in a lot of places, but he could make out what he needed to. 

"Sypha," he said, his mouth going dry. 

"Hmm?" She looked over at him, her face open and curious. He tapped the page he'd just read, swallowing hard. "It's here."

She frowned at him. "What?"

He held the journal up, feeling fear and excitement and apprehension all in equal measure make his heart beat faster and his breath grow shorter. "It's all in here," he said. "I know what she's become."

Her face lit up and she scooted over to him excitedly—most girls only looked that happy if they got flowers from a boy or something like that, but this was definitely the first time he'd ever seen a girl practically vibrating with excitement over the prospect of a murderous monster. 

She took the book from him as he handed it to her, and her eyes skimmed over the pages, her smile slowly fading as she read. Finally she looked up at him, and she was biting her lip, her eyes wide and afraid. 

"Oh," she said, her voice small and soft. She dragged air into her lungs. "Oh, God, no."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My working chapter title for this one was 'Trepha galore'. Because a lot of people sleep on that ship, and that's NOT FAIR.
> 
> The line _'The path of life leads upward for the prudent to keep them from going down to the realm of the dead'_ is from Proverbs 15:24 in the Bible. Yes, I had Trevor quote the Bible. He was raised a good Catholic boy. Stop judging me.  
> And _'Facilis descensus averno'_ is from Virgil's _Aeneid_. Because Vlad and Lisa definitely taught Adrian the classics. Well-educated boys are the best boys.


	13. Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Mirrors:** _A true version of oneself, the revelation of all lies, awareness and clairvoyance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this would take a long time, but apparently I can, contrary to my earlier belief, manage my time and work. *gasp*

**_Sypha_ **

All the breath rushed from her lungs at once. 

Her eyes skimmed desperately over the pages, her heart thudding violently in her chest. Distantly she was aware of Trevor peering over her shoulder, blinking worried blue eyes at the book spread on her lap. She flipped the page hastily, staring at the words written there as if they would somehow change. 

"So this is what she is now," she said, and her voice sounded hollow and bleak to her own ears. She read aloud from the little journal, squinting occasionally at a scratched-out word or a spelling correction. "'Often called the _Vengeful Seductress_ , the iele is native to Wallachia, often found in glens, forests and crossroads. They are said to be entities of revenge and often believed to be envoys from Satan himself'."

"Look." He tapped a part of the page. "'Said to have great seductive power over men'." He looked up at her. "So she lures them in, kills them, sends their bodies back. They use magic, and they can only be seen by their victims, they're incorporeal, and they destroy the land on which they tread—I _knew_ this, goddamn it." 

He brought his hand to the ground sharply, producing a loud, sonorous and painful-sounding noise. "I just never thought she'd be one, since she doesn't destroy the land she walks on, it's supposed to completely just disintegrate. But look here." He pointed at a small, scribbled side-note. 

_"Considered in specific lore to be the animated spirit of one whose death could not deter a potent emotion. The touch of this iele's feet on the ground brings only fertility and lushness. Less wise and more dangerous, she can use compulsion to guide one at her will and cannot be sent back to the life that comes after death until her purpose has been fulfilled,"_ Sypha read aloud. 

"She wanted revenge so badly that it stopped her soul from moving on," Trevor said, sitting back with a faraway look in his eyes. "That powerful need to avenge herself and her lover was probably the perfect magnet for wild magic to harness itself to. So it attached itself to her, and—"

"And she slowly began to transform, until a hundred years later it had completely infused itself into her," Sypha finished. "She started that string of killings, and then..." She trailed off. "And then something stopped her. She was forced to retreat, until a few months ago, when it all started again."

"Something stopped her..." Trevor was nibbling on his lower lip, lost in thought. "What stops a regular-grade iele probably won't make a dent on Aalis, but old wards and stuff could probably hold her back for a while. Salting and burning the place where she dances also makes a lot of—"

"Wait, what did you say?" She grabbed his arm and he jumped, blinking at her. "Old wards, like garlic and all that shit, it won't do a thing against—"

"No, after that. Salting and burning the forest?"

He nodded slowly. "It could detain her. She's a product of resurgence magic and a violent death, so it would harm her. It wouldn't stop her fully, but it'd incapacitate her for..." Something in his eyes clicked suddenly, like a switch being flipped on. She could practically see the gears in his brain turning, sharp and swift. 

"Someone salted and burned the forest," he said, "didn't they?"

"The villagers," she said, and talking felt too slow; her thoughts were streaking through her head faster than light. "Apparently they salted and burned a good part of the forest north of where she is now. It stopped her for almost eighty years."

"And then she showed up again."

"I think... I think it was to taunt your family," Sypha said slowly. "It happened the same year that they stopped hunting, the very next day. I think she did it out of spite, that they couldn't raise a hand against her anymore and that same day she struck again. I suppose it'd make them feel—"

"Helpless," said Trevor softly. "Like you're born with something in your blood but you're not allowed to act on it, like you know you're meant for something but you're not allowed to claim it. Like you're failing yourself and your purpose." He was gazing down at his hands, lying still in his lap, his eyes cast downwards. There was a look on his face she'd never seen there before—a distant, alone, hollow look. 

"Trevor," she said quietly. 

"I guess it worked then, didn't it?" He huffed out a humorless laugh, looking away. "They couldn't do a thing, and dozens of people died because of it. And then people kept dying, and they still couldn't do a thing."

"It was that or get killed, have their legacy stripped and their house burned," Sypha said, setting the journal down. "They did what they had to, and if they hadn't then you wouldn't be sitting here now."

He said nothing, and she hesitated briefly before making up her mind and setting a careful hand on his arm. Muscle like steel cable jumped beneath her touch, and she could feel the heat of his skin even through his clothes. She ignored the way her pulse spiked when he turned to look at her, hesitant blue eyes finding hers. She tried as hard as she could not to look away. 

"I know how you felt," she said, and she had no idea where the words were coming from, but it was as if his gaze were a key that unlocked all of this, everything that she'd tried to shut off for so long. "When you know you can do something, but people don't think you can. They think you shouldn't. But they're not just shutting you away out of scorn. They're afraid, of what you can do and what they know you can become."

She gripped his arm tighter. "You looked past all that," she said. "You decided to do what you were born to do even if you were told you weren't allowed to—and you didn't do it for yourself. You did it for all those people who didn't know they needed you. The same people who wouldn't hesitate to brand you and kill you if they knew who you were. You know that, and you're still helping them, because you know it's the right thing to do." 

She swallowed hard. "And that," she said, "is what makes you the most courageous person I've ever met, Trevor Belmont. And believe me, I've met a lot of people." 

And this time, when their eyes locked, she couldn't have looked away if she tried. "You haven't failed anyone," she said. "If anything, you've done the opposite." 

There was silence once she finished speaking, the words that had somehow so readily spilled from her lips as if she'd known them all along finally running out. The only sound was her ragged breaths, and somewhere in the distance, the gentle ticking of a clock. Her hand was still on his arm, her nails digging in, and it was only then that she belatedly realized how close he was, how her face was tilted upwards to meet his, how he was leaning down ever so slightly, how her knee was pressing to his thigh. 

He was looking at her, just looking at her—and there were unfathomable, enigmatic oceans in his eyes, oceans that she felt she could drown in and not care. His lips were slightly parted, and he drew in a breath, about to say something to her, when—

"Have you found anything?" 

Adrian's voice cut through the fog in her brain, bringing her suddenly back to reality. She was crouched in the library, surrounded by books, clutching Trevor's arm, their faces inches apart. She turned hastily and so did Trevor, both of them moving away from each other at the same time. Sypha let go of him quickly, feeling a blush steal onto her cheeks. 

"I'm afraid I've had no... no luck..." Adrian stopped and blinked at them, raising a single eyebrow smoothly. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Uh, no," Trevor said, leaning back, his cheeks pink as he nearly upset a stack of books beside him. He determinedly wasn't looking at Sypha, who was doing the same. She wished she could voluntarily stop blushing. It would make things so much less awkward. 

Adrian's brow rose higher, and it might just have been her imagination, but she could've sworn he was smiling ever so slightly. His eyes glittered with what could have been amusement. "Are you sure?"

Sypha looked down at her hands, biting her lip. "Yes," she mumbled. 

"Hmm." He looked unconvinced and still amused, but he let the matter drop. "Anyhow," he said, "I've found nothing. I was merely wondering if you've had similar luck."

"No," said Sypha, moving to get up and nearly tripping over her robes in her haste to stand. "I mean, yes! We found out what she is. It's in here—the journal... where is it...?" She looked around, spotted it at her feet, and leaned forward to pick it up just as Trevor said, "There it is."

Her fingers closed over the worn cover of the journal at the same time that Trevor's did, and then they were both holding it, her fingers brushing against his. Her breath caught and then their eyes locked for a split second—and then Trevor let go of the book, glancing away from her hurriedly. 

She ran through a rather long list of curses in her mind as she bit her lip, standing and proffering the book to Adrian, who was definitely smiling now as he took it from her. He shot her a meaningful glance that she couldn't interpret before lowering his gaze to the book, his brows knitting together as he read. His amber-colored eyes were skating across the pages, consternation darkening them. 

She found herself briefly fascinated and distracted by the mesmerizing flutter of his golden eyelashes every time he blinked, and yanked herself back to reality when he raised his eyes for a moment, catching her staring. She blushed— _again_ —but merely raised her eyebrows at him, and he shook his head with a grin before continuing to read. 

His smile faded as he flipped the page, replaced by a worried frown. "This is definitely her," he said, sliding a long, slender finger between the pages to mark it and shutting the book. "It seems like the magic that wreaths the forest somehow supplemented her transformation into an..." He opened the book and checked it again. "An iele. I must admit I've never heard of this creature before."

"Variant of faerie, dryad, nymph." Trevor ticked them off his fingers, leaning against the shelf opposite Adrian and Sypha, ankles crossed and head tilted back. "They're local, native to Wallachia. Lure young male travelers, murder them if they've done wrong in their life. Otherwise they're benevolent. Showing lost people safe paths and so on."

"But Aalis is hardly what I would call benevolent," Adrian observed. 

Trevor nodded at the book, raising his brows. "Specific lore, specific circumstances," he said. "Sometimes emotion can overrule even the most basic order of things. It can upset any balance, no matter how firmly rooted it is in the order of the world. This is an instance of how it wove itself into something nobody ever thought it could change."

"So her need to avenge herself became a part of her magic," Sypha said. 

"Yep." Trevor unhitched himself from the shelf, sauntering up to them and plucking the book out of Adrian's fingers. He flipped through it, holding it up to show them a small, hastily done sketch in one of the margins. It showed a small figure of a dancing woman beside an upturned grave, one with an unmarked headstone. 

"They frequent the place they're buried in," he said. "They can't move too far beyond it."

Sypha felt the blood drain from her face as the puzzle pieces fell into place. "Wait. So... that means she's buried—"

"She's buried where we see her every time," Adrian said. "At the spot where the light enters the forest."

"We've been walking on her grave this whole time." Trevor shut the book with a snap, his expression unreadable. "She's buried under the same ground."

"Shit," Sypha breathed. "If we'd known—there could have been something we could've done about it—"

"If she was a vengeful spirit in full, then we would be able to banish her spirit by salting and burning her remains, but unfortunately I don't think that'll work in this case," Trevor said. "And we'll have a job even getting near the place and digging it up without her trying to kill us if we even go near the damn place."

"But we have to do something," Sypha said. "There has to be something we can do to stop her, something to do with her remains. It has to disadvantage her somehow. If we move her body, she can only move around that place, can't she?"

"She was buried two hundred years ago," said Trevor. "It won't be easy to find her body."

"But say we do." Adrian looked musingly between Sypha and Trevor. "What can be done to destroy her spirit?"

"It says she can't be destroyed until the purpose of her return is fulfilled," Trevor said. "I don't know about you, but that sounds like she's not going anywhere until me and my whole family are dead." He slammed the book shut, his eyes blazing. 

"And _I_ don't know about _you_ ," Adrian said, flaring up instantly and taking a step closer to Trevor, "but we are not going to let that happen. As long as I draw breath, I won't see any harm come to you and yours, and I swear to it."

He had drawn himself up to his full height—which was considerable, since he was the tallest of the three of them—and glared right back at Trevor, and there was such conviction in his words and his eyes that Trevor looked momentarily stunned, blinking wide eyes at him. Sypha stepped forward as well, next to Adrian. 

"And so do I," she said. "This isn't just a regular monster that has to be stopped. It's connected to you, and as long as it is, then it' s definitely bound to be more trying emotionally and mentally than it will be physically. We're not just here to help you destroy her, Trevor."

He was gazing at them both, clutching the book to his chest as if it were armor that could guard him somehow, keep everyone and everything out. "Then why else are you here?" he asked, so quietly that she barely heard it, as if he had half-spoken to himself. Adrian said nothing, and she knew he wouldn't answer, so Sypha spoke for them both. 

"You know why," she said.

* * *

She woke with a start and a gasp, sitting up ramrod straight in her bed so suddenly that her head spun. It was still dark outside, and it took her a moment to realize where she was—in her caravan, on her bed, the blankets twisted around her legs in a hard spiral from the way she'd probably thrashed around in her sleep.

She and Adrian had parted ways in the woods only a few hours before, and he had kissed her as a goodbye, murmuring that he'd see her the next day before vanishing into the trees. She'd stood there a few seconds, blushing and smiling to herself before starting and returning to the village. That had been mere hours ago—and yet the memory of that happiness was distant now, faded and impossible to grasp. 

It took her a while to return to herself, and with each lungful of air she took in it grew easier to breathe, her heartbeat slowing to its normal pace. She dropped her head into her hands, massaging her temples with the tips of her fingers. Honestly, what was the point of being able to do elemental magic when she couldn't even manage to magic herself into getting a good night's sleep?

"Another nightmare?" 

She looked up and saw her grandfather sitting in the chair by her bed, hands folded in his lap and his eyes closed meditatively. He opened them as she looked up, blinking the sleep-induced mist from her vision. She nodded.

"What good can memories do if you cannot move past them?" he asked, and she looked away, feeling pain spreading through her body. She said nothing. 

"It was no fault of yours."

"It was." Her voice trembled, and she hated it. "I know it was. And just thinking it wasn't isn't going to change that they're gone."

"Sypha," he said, and there were infinite bounds of patience and softness in his voice. "You cannot blame yourself forever."

She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging herself protectively. "I can try."

"It was an—"

"It _wasn't_ an accident." Her voice cracked in the middle and she looked away, furiously blinking the tears away. "It was my fault. If I had just—just controlled myself, learned to subdue it, do something, they'd both still be alive. It's—it's this _magic_." She practically spat the word, all the hatred she had for herself embodying itself into it, channeling into those two syllables that somehow always managed to define her. 

"Sometimes I wish I was never born with it," she whispered, and she felt a tear roll down her cheek as she said it. "I hate it sometimes."

"It is a part of you, just as much as they were." He hadn't moved, still sitting stock-still, serene and calm and everything she was supposed to be. "You cannot dishonor it. To do so is to dishonor them in turn."

She pressed her forehead to her knees, letting out a sob. "I don't care. Honoring it doesn't bring them back."

"But it makes it easier."

"How would you know?" She felt herself shaking and inadvertently wished that Adrian was there, to tuck her into his arms, kiss the tears from her face, to listen to her and talk to her. And oddly enough she wished for Trevor too, his quiet, steady presence and his ability to calm her without speaking. The longing for it, for both of them, was sharp and sudden, and she could almost feel it, like a dull pain beneath her ribs. 

"She was my daughter as much as she was your mother," her grandfather said simply. 

She lifted her face, feeling her tears, already stopped and drying into trails of salt on her cheeks. "I—I didn't—" She looked away with a sigh. "I'm sorry."

"I understand your pain," he said. "But you must learn how to let go. Once you understand and come to terms with what happened, only then can the pain recede. Only then will the nightmares stop once and for all. Only then will you stop blaming yourself for what you did not do."

"I don't know how." She felt her lower lip tremble, and fought to keep her eyes from spilling over again. She hated crying; not because it made her feel weak, but because it made her feel vulnerable, torn open. "Every time I try, I think of one more thing I could've done to keep it from happening, one more thing I wasn't good enough at. It just doesn't go away."

"Would they want you to blame yourself so? Do you not think it would pain them to see their only daughter suffering so, and that too by her own hand and guilt?"

"It doesn't matter what they would have wanted," she said, hugging herself tighter. "They're gone, and they're not coming back. I can't stop to think about what could be. I only have what is." 

"What will it take for you to finally forgive yourself and move on?" It was a simple question, but one that drove into her like a skewer, pain lancing through her at the thought of it. She bit her lip as her eyes welled up again, and another tear rolled down her face. 

"I don't know," she said, her voice shaking. "I don't want to move on. Moving on means forgetting about it, it means _running away_." She swallowed hard, her trembling hands clenching into fists, so tightly she felt her nails dig into her palms. "I know what I did; I'm never moving on from that."

Her grandfather stood, his face still pensive, calm. He looked down at her, curled up into a ball, tears streaking her face, a mess of emotion and hysterics. He sat on the bed beside her, merely looking into her tear-stained face, his eyes heavy with sadness. 

"Then," he said, "when the day comes that you finally realize what happened and know the truth for yourself, do not come and tell me. The only thing I have ever wished for you is—"

"Happiness?"

"Peace," he said softly. "I promised your mother I would do all in my power to see to it that you live a good life. I will not go back on my word, Sypha. Not now, nor ever." He raised a hand to her face, gently tucking a wayward curl of hair behind her ear. "It is still early, not yet entirely dawn. Sleep now, and I will be here when you wake."

She sniffled, wiping at her eyes before nodding and lying back down, taking a shuddering breath as she closed her eyes. She felt her grandfather tuck the covers around her tenderly, covering her prone form. She felt his fingers move through her hair, and gradually she felt herself calm, her heartbeat slowing, her breath easing. 

She fell asleep within moments, and true to his word her grandfather was there when she woke, and when she opened her eyes she saw him asleep by her bed, still sitting in the same chair, the morning light filtering in from the window falling squarely onto him. She felt her throat close up, a mixture of gratitude and sadness and love momentarily cutting off her breath. 

She got out of bed, then spread a quilt over him, making sure he didn't wake as she tidied the room up and left the caravan quietly. He was still asleep when she left, shutting the door softly behind her as she did.

* * *

It was warm outside, not a cloud in sight. 

She was wandering aimlessly as she usually did most days, with no destination in mind and with her hood down to allow the breeze to ripple through her curls. It was something she often did on most days, merely letting her mind wander as her feet did, moving among the people and in the streets. She found that she could think better with the air open all around her and the earth beneath her feet, and sunlight slanting down from the sky in buttery rays. 

Walking alone with her hood down was safer during the day, and she didn't have to worry about dark, empty streets or men with greedy eyes and even greedier hands lurking about in corners—but walking openly in the day provided its own downsides. For one, people openly sneered at her Speaker robes, and she had heard plenty of people whispering behind her back that they were a bad omen, that they had stayed in the village for far too long. 

She emerged at the square, bustling in the warm midmorning, and stopped for a few seconds, the only still thing in the flurry of movement all around her. She stepped forward and was immediately swept away by the human tide, forced to move along with the wave of people who swept through the little square. 

She remembered seeing this place for the first time, that she hadn't liked it—there had been a smaller amount of people, and to her that always meant more antipathy. Over the months she'd come to like the place, the narrow cobblestone streets and the thatched-roof houses and the cramped alleys between them. The _people_ , on the other hand—

Something collided with her shoulder hard and she stumbled, caught off guard. She righted herself, irritation gathering in her chest, aided further by the residual moodiness that she had woken up with because of the nightmare—one among countless over the years, but each one hurt just as much as the last one. 

She rubbed her shoulder, glaring at the person who had so carelessly bumped into her, and that too in a clearer section of the square, just at the foot of the church's steps. It was a young man, tall and slender, wearing the sweeping black robes of a priest. His face was set in hard, unforgiving lines, and his eyes were a flinty gray. 

"You may want to watch where you're going," she said, and there was a sliver of a razor edge in her voice, sharpening the words. 

"I'd been looking for you," he said, disdain in every syllable. "And I might tell you the same," he said in reply, looking down at her with a faint sneer. "And you'd do well to remember it better than I do; already your welcome wears thinner with each passing day."

"Does it?" She felt her hackles rise almost immediately, and she tried to shove it down, to display what was expected of her—peace and pacifying control, calm and serenity. But she was feeling far from serene and calm; his tone was dismissive almost, as if she and everything she stood for hardly mattered to him, was less important than the film of dust covering his shoes. 

"And why is that?" she asked, the edge in her voice sharpening. 

His sneer grew slightly more pronounced. "You Speakers," he said, and there was hate in the word, one he spat as if it were poison between his lips, "you have always been an unfortunate blemish on this land. You mock the word of God and cast away His principles, and you hide witches in your ranks."

"We do nothing of the sort." She stood up straight, and thrust her chin up—it was something her body did automatically, trying to match his glare, trying to seem taller. "We live with our rules, you live with yours. What we do with our lives are none of your concern."

"It is when you begin to allow your hellish influences to seep into the minds of the people." He smiled at her, and it was all teeth and cold malice, and something almost like triumph, a look that made her feel sick to her stomach. "Do not think I do not know what you did, little girl. How you enchanted that poor boy, how you ensnared him in your Satanic net—"

"What are you talking about?" She shook her head, feeling her heart skip a beat. Had Adrian's magic left a trace? Had something gone wrong? "What happened to him?"

"He lives," the archdeacon said dismissively, as if he couldn't care less, "but I'm afraid he's gone quite mad—you see, he is utterly convinced that you are the one who saved his life in the forest—and nothing convinced him otherwise, no matter how much his mother and father told him of the truth." His eyes glittered, half-anger and half-disgust. 

She felt anger and disgust of her own, rearing like a snake in her chest, its blistering venom running through her veins. "That's because I _am_ the one who saved his life in the forest that night," she hissed. "I saw him go in, I followed him, brought him back, and—"

"A likely story," he sneered. "Do you really expect me to believe you?"

"Why wouldn't you?" She felt her hands clench into fists, her eyes narrowing. "He said it himself, you told me."

"How on earth would you be able to do anything against the monster in the forest?" he asked incredulously, and then he _laughed_ , actually laughed, a cold derisive sound that made her itch to raise a fist and punch him in his smug face. "You're a Speaker, and bring nothing but ill on the land upon which you tread."

His smirk widened. "Moreover, do you really expect anyone to believe a pretty, delicate little thing like you could possibly lift a finger against a power like that?" A sickening gleam stole into his eyes, and he lifted a hand, a finger trailing across her cheek. He tilted his head, the tip of his tongue running along his teeth. 

She stepped back, revulsion filling her as she shoved his hand away. "You're disgusting," she said, and her voice was shaking with anger. "Don't touch me."

"Oh, she has a mouth," he said, eyes glittering. "What else can you do with it, hmm?"

She felt her heart hammering in her chest, wondering how nobody in the street around them was listening, how they could just stand there and watch him treat her like a common whore. Not for the first—nor the last—time, she felt a little lick of hatred for them all, all the commoners who thought themselves good when they merely made room for more evil in the world by watching and doing nothing. 

"You're a priest, a deacon," she snarled. "You can't—you aren't supposed to—"

"Vows of chastity?" He grinned at her and she couldn't decide whether she wanted to scream of vomit. "This is a small village, and the nearest city is hundreds of leagues away. In a place as insignificant as this, do vows really matter? Moreover, it isn't as if anyone follows the laws here." 

He leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. "It's an open secret that the bishop is the milkmaid's father." There was a glint in his eyes she hated, the same look she'd seen in hundred's of men's eyes before. "It was the cook in the church—he couldn't resist, I suppose—but then again, what's life without a little pleasure?" He laughed softly and she felt her lips twist with disgust. 

"Believe what you want," she snapped. "I did save him that night, and you—all of you—are just too cowardly to admit that a woman could do what none of you could."

"You bewitched him." He straightened, glaring at her. "It's obvious—and I know what should be done. We ought to throw you out of this town, force you to take to the streets like the rats you are. Pests, spreading disease, tarnishing every holy thing you touch with your dirty little paws." He took a heaving breath, eyes wild. "We should send you away, never to return."

She shook her head, enraged. "That wouldn't be fair," she said. "You can't throw us out for something you don't even know we did. And we didn't—I didn't—do anything. You can deny it as much as you want."

"The bishop," he said, "would say otherwise."

She stared at him, disbelieving. "His word is not law," she said, outraged. "He can't do whatever he wants to whoever he wants—"

"He can." The archdeacon smiled. "And you know it."

"You can't send us away." She glared at him. "Not when we've done nothing wrong."

"I'll vouch for you," he said quickly, as if he couldn't get the words out fast enough. "I'll do it, on one condition. I'll make sure you're never threatened again if you agree."

She eyed him, wary. "What is it?"

He took a step closer, and she tried as hard as she could not to step back in response. "I'll let you go, all of you, if you spread your legs for me. One night, and you'll be pardoned. I swear it." He took another step forward and this time she couldn't help it; she moved back, and this time she felt it—fear, ice-cold and spilling through her body. 

_Again_ , she thought. _Why again?_ She had grown unused to the greed and ignorance of people, all the years she spent in her caravan, surrounded by kind, caring people. She had forgotten how much the world challenged her, how much this happened to girls she had known. 

A harsh exhale escaped her lips, and nausea churned in her stomach. "Is," she said, her voice a strangled whisper, "is that all I'm worth to you? One night? Is that all my value is to you people? You won't believe me, you'll call me a witch—you won't listen to me when I try to tell you what I did, and now you're offering to pardon us in exchange for—for _this_ —"

"You should be honored, flattered, that someone like me would even look at you," he snarled. "This is why women shouldn't be unmarried—getting all sorts of blasphemous ideas in their heads, thinking things they shouldn't be. Once you find a husband you'll learn your place." 

She took another step back, horror and numb disbelief filling her head with white noise. "No," she said. "No, I won't whore myself for a respect I've earned but haven't received. I won't ever let you touch me. If you even try, I'll cut off your hands."

"Surely you don't mean that," he purred, stepping closer again. "I've bedded plenty of women who say they don't want it, but once I get started on them they practically beg me for more—say yes, I know you want to."

She stepped forward, and his eyes sparked with victory—and then she raised a hand and slapped him hard across the face, her fingers stinging when she lowered her arm. Rage blinded her, a rage that brought heat bubbling to the surface of her skin, heat she shoved down before it could spark into a fire. 

His head snapped to the side with the force of her blow, and when he turned again his face was flushed with anger and humiliation, his throat working furiously. A bright red stain was spreading across his cheek, and he raised a hand to it, eyes blazing. People around them had stopped, staring and gaping openly. Murmurs were racing through the crowd, springing up like weeds after a storm. 

"Don't ever talk to me again," she whispered, feeling fury coursing through her veins. "If you ever even come near me, and if you tell the bishop anything you know isn't true, then I will make sure to tell ever single person in this village all the disgusting things you said—and then it won't be us who'll be shoved away with just the clothes on our backs." 

She stepped back, breathing hard. "Do you understand?"

His hands were in fists at his sides and he looked on the verge of lunging for her, but with all the people watching, she knew he wouldn't risk it. "Very well," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Fine—I'll let you go just this once, little girl. Next time you see me, you'll wish you hadn't crossed me yet."

He turned on his heel and stalked away, black robes billowing behind him. The people began moving about again, still muttering as they went about their daily business, casting her sympathetic glances but saying nothing. She was standing in the same place, feeling tears of anger and humiliation and revulsion fill her eyes. 

And when they finally spilled over and spattered on the stone at her feet, nobody came forward, and nobody said a word.

* * *

She loved the smell of books. 

It had the faint scent of parchment and the wood from the spine that had been used to bind the pages together, and ink. It calmed her, took her mind off the heavier thoughts, helped her concentrate on the task at hand. She remembered loving it as a little girl too, how she had always taken Mama's books from the side of the bed and bury her face in the pages to smell them, fill herself with the scent of knowledge. 

And while in the little library in the village it smelled mostly like dust and mildew, the Belmont Hold was full to brimming with the scent of it, and the whole place invariably calmed her frayed nerves as she breathed it in.

She lifted the book she was holding presently (titled _Native Lore and Demons_ ), lifting it to her face and closing her eyes, allowing the scent of ink and paper and wood binding relax her tightly knotted muscles and loosen her taut spine. She sighed, leaning back against the shelf behind her and breathing deeply. 

"You're not smelling that book, are you?" 

She started, dropping the book as she looked up, her heart racing. Trevor was moving towards her, an eyebrow raised and a huge book in his hands. He stopped and stood right above her, blinking down at her with a bemused expression on his face. "Because that would be really weird," he said. 

She blushed, picking the book up again. "Books smell good," she said defensively. "And it's not weird."

"Sure it's not." He sat down opposite her, grinning at her as he did. He picked up the book she'd dropped, opening it at a random page. He examined the writing inside and she tapped the cover, her spirits lifting almost against her will. It was something she couldn't help but adore about Trevor Belmont—he could cheer her up without even knowing she needed cheering up, and he did it easier than most people breathed. 

"Here, you smell it and see." She pushed the book up in his hands and he turned his face away like a disobedient child forced to eat all the vegetables on his plate, making a face. "What? No, I'm not smelling a fucking _book_ —"

"Come on, it smells good," she laughed, pushing it up further. He leaned even further away, nearly dropping it as she shoved it into his face. "Oh, come on, it's not like I'm making you eat it, Belmont."

"Fucking Christ." He finally relented, allowing her to tilt the pages towards his face, grinning as she held it to him for a few seconds. "See?" she asked as she lowered it, peering down into the pages. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I think I've been scarred for life," he said loftily, swinging back around to sit beside her, and she noticed with a little thrill that their elbows touched every time one of them turned a page. "I'll never be the same again. I was just molested into smelling a book of all the things."

"Admit it, it smelled good." She flipped another page, trying to hide her smile. 

"No it didn't," he said with mock-disdain. "It smelled terrible."

"Oh, stop being so dramatic." She set the book aside, reaching for another. "I know you liked it, but you're just too stubborn to admit it."

"Nope," he said, swiping a book that was resting on her lap and opening it. "I totally didn't. It smelled like paper, and paper smells weird."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course it smelled like paper, that's what books are made of. What else would it smell like? Chocolate?"

"You smell like chocolate," he said almost absently, flipping another page and peering into it, squinting at the words. 

She looked up from her own book, thrown. "What?"

He looked up as well, blinking. "What?"

"I smell like chocolate?"

He blinked again, then blushed, a hand lifting to run absentmindedly through his hair. It stuck out all around his head like the tentacles of an overexcited octopus, adorably rumpled. A stray lock of dark hair fell over his eyes and her fingers itched to reach out and tuck it in place. 

"Well—yeah," he said. "Chocolate, and peppermint. It's sort of... hard to miss."

She looked back at the book but wasn't really seeing it, feeling a sort of giddy schoolgirl joy bubble up in her chest. She knew that this was almost exactly how she had felt around Adrian—and how she still felt around Adrian—and yet it was entirely different. It felt strange; how could she possibly like two people at the same time? Moreover, her and Adrian were serious now... weren't they?

"I... didn't think you'd notice," she said honestly. 

He ducked his head, and his hair fell over his eyes as if to hide them. "Hunter's instincts, I suppose."

There was a silence between them, one that felt almost charged. She found her mind straying, trying as hard as she could not to think about Trevor, and how close he was sitting, and how he'd told her she smelled like chocolate and peppermint, and how _he_ smelled like grass and cinnamon and leather—

"We should go find Adrian," she said, and at almost the exact same moment Trevor said, "I think we should look for Adrian."

They both turned and looked at each other. 

"Well," Trevor said, "I guess this means we really do have to go find him now." He stood up, stretching his arms out with a sigh, then hesitated a moment, then held out a hand to her. She took it gratefully, allowing him to pull her to her feet. They both let go of each other at the same time and she dusted off her robes just to give herself something to do besides blush and look at the floor as they set off between the shelves. 

"So where do you think he'll be?" she asked, running careful fingers through her hair to work out the tangles the wind outside had knotted into the strands. "He just vanished the moment we arrived, and he did that last time, too."

"Yeah, I guess this place isn't exactly his cup of tea—or blood, I dunno if he drinks tea or not—anyway, it's sort of..." He gestured at a massive ax displayed on the wall, a deadly fan of metal still spattered with blood that was long-since dried. But it was still bright, a red that was almost garish. Vampire blood. 

"Sort of like an exhibition of everything you can kill him with," she finished. 

"Basically. And he's sort of like a turtle when he's upset, I mean—he just withdraws into his shell and doesn't come out how much you poke at him." He shrugged, seeming pleased with his analogy. "It's next to impossible to talk to the guy."

"And he can get defensive," Sypha observed. "He'll be ready to take even the most normal of statements as a threat and proceed to verbally shred you."

Trevor laughed. "Exactly."

"So he'll definitely be somewhere around here." She veered right, down a short flight of steps and onto the first level. The oldest books were displayed there, as were all sorts of disemboweling paraphernalia and strange goblets and stuffed monster heads in glass cases, forming a sort of historic, gruesome yet fascinating maze. 

"Right," she said as they drew up to a shelf. "We should look—"

"In the display cases," he finished. "Yeah, there's some pretty dark shit in there."

So they moved forward, Sypha glancing with interest at all the items in the cases. At one point they passed the corpse of an entire demon, preserved in a huge glass case and floating in a greenish preservative. Its leathery wings had turned translucent, a mark of how long it had been preserved there, dead but not allowed to waste away as was the natural order of things. 

They finally found Adrian, sitting on the steps with a book on his lap. They both stopped a few feet behind him at the same time, as if some invisible force had restrained them. They merely looked at him awhile, hanging back, wary of what he might say if they approached him. 

He half-turned his head, affording them a glance of his sharp profile. "Don't just stand there," he said. "If you want to sit, you can sit." He turned back around, looking down again at the book balanced on his knees. 

Trevor and Sypha exchanged a surprised glance—then Trevor shrugged and moved forward, folding himself next to Adrian, on his right. Sypha stepped forward as well, seating herself to Adrian's left. She drew her knees up, looping her arms around them and glancing at the book Adrian was holding. 

_"Tales of the Commonfolk,"_ she read aloud. "A storybook?"

"I've found," he said, and he sounded ever so slightly cold, "that when people wish to erase something or someone out of existence, it's easiest to do so by turning them into fiction. Denying they ever existed. Spinning their tale into a folk tale, putting it in a children's book. Nobody will ever think it was real."

There was a pause. "Until it shows itself," Trevor said, bracing his hands on either side of him on the steps and leaning back easily. "There's truth in stories—that's what my father always says."

"I suppose," Adrian said shortly. 

"Adrian," Sypha said cautiously, "is there anything... wrong?"

"Wrong? No, nothing's wrong at all." He sounded bitter. "Except for the fact that this place is full to the brim with crosses and salt and holy water and the whole place is built with aspen wood. Not to mention there's corpses and skulls and severed heads everywhere I look, so I suppose I can feel uncomfortable both inside and out. But no, nothing's wrong, nothing at all."

"This stuff affects you?" Trevor sounded surprised. "Aspen, crosses, holy water?"

Adrian turned his head to glare at Trevor. "To be in a room with aspen floors, shelves and walls, not to mention ladders and steps and rafters can be debilitating," he snapped. "It gives me headaches, not to mention it makes me itch all over. And holy water can burn me the way hot water does to you—it doesn't wound me exactly, but it causes pain." 

He turned back around rather haughtily, looking down again at the book. Sypha and Trevor exchanged another glance, a quick one over Adrian's shoulder. 

"I knew it would be a little... trying, coming here being half-vampire and everything," Trevor said, hesitant. "But I thought you'd have guessed how it'd be, I mean—"

"Oh, I'd guessed," Adrian sniffed, shutting his book with a snap. "I just hadn't expected your family to have kept spoils like trophies that are so proudly displayed all over this place." He gestured at the glass cases behind them. "I saw the skull of a _child_. Not more than two years old." He looked down at his hands, clutching the book in his lap. "You say your family fought for the betterment of the world, but now I wonder."

Trevor sighed. "Back then," he said, looking ahead into middle distance, a leg stretched out in front of him, "it was... it was more like a game for them, you know? Who could gut the most demons, who could stake the most vampires, who could—I don't know, disembowel the most ghosts or whatever. The spirit of what they did was sort of lost for a while. It was less of a save-the-people thing and more of a... well, you know."

"A killing spree," Sypha supplied. 

"Sort of." He shrugged, turning back to Adrian. "And I'm not responsible for what they did, even if most of it was done for the good of the many"—he ignored Adrian's glare in his direction studiously—"and not to mention we had a bit of a tie-up with the church."

Sypha was surprised. "Really? I thought they didn't approve of your proximity to the supernatural."

"That was all talk." He waved a hand. "They're all hypocrites. They guided us behind everyone's backs, and then one day just decided we were corrupted and told us to lock it all away. It's always the same. Samaritans in public, sinners in private."

Sypha shivered, thinking back to the archdeacon's words to her, and silently agreed. It troubled her and frightened her, that an institution that held so much power over the people could be so winged in its own shadows. 

"That doesn't exactly change my mind about what's in here," Adrian muttered. 

"I'm not trying to," Trevor said easily. "I get you're uncomfortable, we've given you space, but we sort of need to combine forces now. We're moving slowly, and we need as many hands as we can get."

"Have you ever thought of a career in motivational speaking?" Adrian drew off his gloves, raising an eyebrow. "Because I can really feel the positivity oozing from your every word."

"Hey, I try." Trevor grinned at him and he seemed to be unable to help but smile a little in return, lifting his hands and gathering his hair away from his face. Sypha and Trevor watched, both arrested and slightly mesmerized as he sectioned it with his fingers, pulling the strands into a messy braid that dropped off his right shoulder. He tied it off with a length of twine, then blinked at both of them—who were still staring at him as if he was an angel descended from heaven. 

"What?" he asked, a little defensively. 

"Nothing," they chorused, both glancing away quickly. She saw Adrian grin a little out of the corner of her eye, but he said nothing as Sypha looked down, suddenly enormously interested in the seam of her robes, while Trevor appeared engrossed in the stair's railing. 

"So," Adrian said after a while, "what have you found over the last few hours?"

"Not much," Sypha said, grateful for the conversation starter—though it was rather difficult to look directly at him when he was smiling a little like that and with that braid—why did Adrian look so devastatingly beautiful with a braid in his hair? It was infuriating. "Um, we sort of found out how to stop her for a long period of time but not indefinitely."

"I see." He leaned back, placing the book he'd been reading onto the step above them. "I've found out plenty when it comes to normal iele—benevolent, like you said," he said, nodding at Trevor, "but nothing on the specific lore. It seems this is one monster they don't know much about, the Belmonts."

"Hey," Trevor said suddenly, putting a hand on Adrian's shoulder. "That reminds me of something." He stood up, glancing up and down the stairs, looking almost excited about something. "There won't be anything about specific lore here, but I know where we might be able to find it."

"What?" Adrian asked, and he glanced confusedly at Sypha. "Where?"

"It should be... down there somewhere..." Without waiting for them to catch up, he started down the stairs, taking them five at a time as he loped down and disappeared from view. Adrian and Sypha stood up quickly, both sharing a look full of bewilderment. 

"What do we do?" she asked, looking at the space where Trevor had vanished down the steps anxiously. "Follow him?"

He held out a hand, looking at her, eyes glittering. "There's nothing else we can do," he said, and he tilted his head, smiling at her. She laughed and took his hand, and then, hand in hand they ran down the steps after Trevor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know how amazing I am; I post early AND I provide Trephacard. <3 
> 
> Also I've been reading a lot about Medieval Europe lately, and apparently a lot of archdeacons and priests would in fact tell women prosecuted for being witches that they'd let them off the hook if they slept with them, and they'd usually agree because they valued their lives above their dignity. Medieval European Church, you've officially done it again—you've made me think, 'there can't be anything worse they used to do'. I wonder what's next. (;¬_¬)


	14. Crows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Crows:** _Mystery, intelligence, flexibility of the body and soul, ultimatum and destiny._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably you: *sees my tag updates*  
> You: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> This chapter is SO long. *covers face*  
> But it has some juicy Trephacard, so it's sort of worth it. And also it has Carmilla. And sexy vampire tropes. My advertising skills know no bounds.

**_Adrian_ **

They found Trevor at the bottom of the stairs. 

He was standing in the large, open space that lay at the base of the whole library, a clearing of sorts surrounded by bookshelves and glass cases in a loose square. There was a single stone pedestal mounted in the middle of the space, one with a huge, old-looking leather tome resting on it, open on the stand. 

Trevor was rifling through it, albeit carefully—he was scanning the pages, gingerly flipping each thin sheaf of parchment covered all over in spindly lettering. He was muttering to himself as he read, gently turning each page over after he read through it. 

Adrian and Sypha finally fetched up in the open space, their fingers still linked. A sudden and (somewhat) irrational fear trickled into his mind, one that whispered in his ear, telling him that no matter what, neither Trevor nor Sypha should find out about his back-and-forth between them. It wouldn't be pretty if they ever found out, knowing them—so he'd resolved to do everything he could to stop them from doing so. 

A sudden and unwelcome image rose in his mind, of a long, teetering line of colossal dominoes—each poised to fall one after the other, with only Adrian's strength, feeble as it was against their massive weight, keeping the first one from falling and bringing the whole line crashing down. He shoved it away, telling himself he'd dwell on it later. 

He dropped Sypha's hand as they moved forward towards Trevor, who still hadn't looked up from his careful combing through the huge book. They came up next to him but he didn't look up or acknowledge their presence, apparently engrossed in reading and finding something. 

Sypha moved to Trevor's other side, carefully lifting the edge of the book to get a look at the title. She frowned, setting it down a moment later. "There's no title," she said, tilting her head to glance at the pages Trevor was handling so cautiously. Her eyes moved across the words, and her brows knitted together as they did. "It's a—"

"Family bestiary," Trevor finished absently, not looking up. "Oldest book in this whole place, started by Leon. It's been added to over the years by my family, so everything about everything we've ever faced is in here."

Something nagged at the back of Adrian's mind. "Wait," he said. "If that's true, then I don't think what we're looking for is in there."

Finally Trevor looked up, blinking at him with eyes that were a startling blue under the mellow golden glow of the lamplight. "What do you mean? Why not?"

"Well," he said, moving closer to Trevor and nudging him until he made room at the plinth of the stand, "you said that this is specific lore. And if it's specific to the circumstance, then that means that it's likely this has never happened before—lore this specific, that is. For all we know, this is the first time there's ever been such a transformation brought about by a very unique set of circumstances."

Sypha nodded slowly as if realizing what he was saying even as she thought about it. She was pressed to Trevor's other side, squeezing him between her and Adrian. He was aware that the plinth was actually rather wide and spacious, but he couldn't imagine actually using all that room—he was rather comfortable feeling Trevor's warmth bleeding into his side, hearing his soft breaths, the scent of his blood rising through his skin—rich, devastatingly mortal, the faint yet seductive tang of noble blood...

He blinked away the disoriented daze the thoughts brought with them, focusing instead on the book in front of them. "We might not find it," Sypha was saying, blinking wide blue eyes at the pages splayed before them. "Adrian's right—the lore is different for different cases."

"And there I was, thinking it'd all be in here," Trevor sighed. He looked through the last few pages, then left it open where the book ended, on a blank page. "I guess not, then."

"Why not put it there yourself?" Sypha asked. 

Both Adrian and Trevor turned to look at her, Adrian leaning behind Trevor so that he could see her face. She was blinking at them thoughtfully, with that all-too familiar gleam in her eye that told him she had just come up with something crazy, insane, or genius—or perhaps even all three. Knowing Sypha, it was likely the latter. 

"What do you mean?" Trevor asked, though he could hear the hesitation in the question that told Adrian he was onto what she was saying. "You mean... write it myself?"

"Why not?" The beginnings of a grin were tugging at her lips, that reckless, untamed sort of grin that made him wonder how she could ever have survived all her life surrounded by history books. She was a dichotomy in herself, Sypha, a perfect blend of free and contained, reckless and cautious, spontaneous and studious. 

"You said your family kept adding whatever they found," she said, tapping the page and glancing at Trevor. "Why not keep the tradition alive? Who knows—maybe one day far in the future one of your child's grandchild's grandchild needs the information and won't find anything, and this will be there to guide him—or her." She raised a coppery brow. 

"Fat chance," snorted Trevor, but he looked thoughtful as he ran a finger along the worn-out spine of the bestiary. "But I see what you mean. It's sort of my duty, isn't it? To carry on what they started."

"And it can help us, too," Adrian said, reaching out and tapping a nail against the little pot of ink sitting next to the book, a massive eagle-feather quill lying next to it, its brown tufts frosted with white dust. "We can put down everything we know about Aalis in one place, and organize our own thoughts and see how to proceed from here."

"Sounds like a plan," said Sypha happily, squeezing Trevor's arm. He smiled down at her, and there was something tentative and hesitant yet almost incandescent in his eyes, a look he'd been seeing a lot in both their faces recently. Something in him knew that he should probably be a little acerbic about it, maybe even jealous. But for some reason all he felt was a deep-set feeling of ease, as if some invisible force was allowing everything to fall into place just as it should be. 

And he'd be lying if he said a little part of him didn't feel like egging them on. Just a little.

Trevor carefully lifted the book from its pedestal, holding it with both hands as he lowered it to the ground a few feet away. It sent up a magnificent plume of dust as he set it down, a white cloud billowing upwards, making Trevor gag and curse, coughing as he waved a hand in front of his face. Sypha gathered the ink and quill, moving over to sit next to Trevor where he was sprawled beside the book, all long limbs and effortless casualness. 

Adrian moved away, for some reason not wanting to intrude on their quiet conversation, the way their heads were tilted towards each other and how they sat so close their arms touched and their knees bumped against each other. Again, it wasn't jealousy—merely a desire for them to get closer, for them to realize exactly how extraordinary the other was, just as he had. But he hadn't expected to fall hard for them both...

He passed the display cases, the glass coated with dust but the artifacts still clearly visible inside, gruesome and intact even after decades of undisturbed rest in the Hold. Any sunny thoughts of Trevor and Sypha melted away slowly, and he felt his lips twist as he passed the racks of skulls on crushed velvet sheets, all grinning terribly as if to taunt him. 

He moved into the shelves, once again feeling that horribly familiar pang that came with seeing so many cruelties displayed with such pride all around the library. At one point he'd chanced upon a little glass case with something white and gleaming inside; thinking it was some rare rune-stone or something along those lines he'd moved closer, only to realize with horror that it was a preserved pair of vampire fangs, polished and gleaming. They had clearly been torn out and not cut—the roots were ragged, and there was still dried blood on the edges.

He had backed away, revulsion churning his stomach, and moved away quickly, barely looking right or left as he'd walked. Here, however, in the bookshelves it was less graphic, more calming. He'd always loved books, and while his father's collection outstripped the Belmonts' in number, the breadth of knowledge about innumerable subjects here in the Hold was unparalleled. 

He slid a few volumes from their shelves, flipping through them absently. He could hear murmured conversation filtering in from where Trevor and Sypha were sitting. He tried as hard as he could not to listen in, but a few words reached his ears all the same, as did a fair amount of laughter and giggles. He sighed, glancing back again at the shelves that held so many relics of torture, relics that made his skin crawl just looking at them. 

He slid the books back on their shelves, pacing around the library without touching anything, merely moving between the shelves. He felt oddly like one of the stereotypical villains in a children's storybook, the tall scary vampire who dressed in black and wore a cape and stalked around libraries brooding about evil schemes. The thought was enough to bring a little smile to his face despite how dispirited he felt. 

This whole place was designed to make him feel alien, other. He felt it in his bones, the faint pounding of his head, that horrible itch deep underneath his skin that made him want to scratch his bones with nails that were claws until their marrows spilled out like blood. He shook his head a little to get rid of the gruesome thoughts, feeling his vision flicker like a mirage, making everything around him shimmer strangely. 

He tried to blink it away, but the feeling persisted, just at the corner of his vision and maddening, like a fly so small he could hardly see buzzing around his face. It was strange; he had felt fine when they had first arrived in the library, but that deep, uncomfortable itch under his skin and the throbbing in his head had only started a few hours ago. He reacted mildly to the wood, but that was different—and this was stronger.

His eyelids were falling shut, and each time he blinked it felt as if his eyes had been shut for hours rather than mere milliseconds. He suddenly felt immensely tired, swallowing past a throat so dry it felt as if it were lined with knives. Too late he realized that he had fared better in the glass cases, where there was less aspen surrounding him. 

He stopped walking abruptly, trying to drag air into his lungs; he felt light-headed, as if he couldn't breathe. He felt oddly weak, his chest contracting sharply—the same way it did when he had lost blood. He felt his veins tighten, sending pricks of pain lancing across his arms.

A second later he realized why.

He felt his throat catch and a cough ripped through him, making him double over as his vision tunneled. Blood spattered across the bookshelves and the floor as he did, a bright, horribly vivid red. He lifted a hand to his lips and they came away stained with blood, smearing across his skin. What was happening to him?

He was tired; so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. Something in his body jolted and then suddenly the floor had risen up beneath him, his vision reeling as he blinked at it, confused. Then he realized his legs had given way and he had half-fallen, half-sat heavily on the ground, his head spinning. It shouldn't be affecting him like this, he thought distantly. There was no way his fatigue and disorientation could so strongly be cause merely by proximity to aspen. 

Something was wrong. 

He tried to call out, but his voice was a mere whisper, dry and cracked. Blood was trickling in a steady stream from between his lips, dripping onto the floor. He was beginning to lose consciousness and he wondered idly if this is how he would die and Trevor and Sypha would find him here, curled up and lifeless with blood dripping from his mouth. And what an irony that would be—for his heart, which would beat forever, to stop beating before their own mortal ones. 

And oddly enough that was the thought that gave him peace as his eyes closed of their own volition and he was swept away into darkness.

* * *

_"Such beauty." He felt a soft touch on his cheek and opened his eyes, the world around him hazy and suffused with golden mist. He felt no discomfort now, no itch under his skin and that constant racing of his heart that he had mistaken for being a reaction to the wood and crosses and holy things in the Belmont Hold._

_"You look so much like he did." The same voice whispered in his ear, and he looked around to identify it, familiar though it was. "Aalis?" he asked._

_"You know my name." She coalesced from thin air, a vision made from mist and breaths of wind. She was beautiful, but also terrible and mutilated, like the painting of a lovely woman that had been slashed and torn beyond repair. She cocked her head to the side like a curious child, her curtains of dark hair falling over one of her blue, blue eyes—so much like Trevor's._

_"I know everything. We all do." He stood on shaky feet, his heart thudding in his chest. So now he knew that the dizziness and nausea and the way everything had spun around him had been Aalis... somehow. "I know what happened to you."_

_"Do you now?" She drifted closer, blinking those eyes at him. He couldn't look at her directly, not when all he could see when she looked at him was Trevor, and the way he smiled and the way his lips felt against Adrian's when they kissed—_

_"Good," she laughed, coming even closer. "The pieces are falling into place. Soon they will be locked, and once it is so it cannot be undone."_

_"How are you here? In my head?" He wanted to step back, but he knew it would give her a sense of power over him, that sense that she could frighten him and make him move away from her. "And how were you in the library? I thought you couldn't move far past your grave."_

_"A mere trick," she said, smiling at him. She was shimmering and shifting before his eyes, sometimes the vision of a beautiful young woman, and sometimes a decaying undead wraith. "I have power in a limited sense, and my spirit is tied to my body—however, dreams are easy to manipulate, as are those that share my blood."_

_"But I'm not dreaming," he said, feeling his brows knit together. "And it wasn't the wood that made me so dizzy, it was you. I don't have Belmont blood—how can you be here? How did you—"_

_"Something rather irritating that I have discovered about youth," said Aalis coldly, "is that they ask too many questions when the answer is right before their eyes clearer than day." She drifted closer, her appearance once again flickering from ghostly specter to beautiful girl. "Do you remember where you and my pretty young descendant first met?"_

_The forest, by the river, he thought immediately, but he said nothing aloud. His mind was whirling over the possibilities, but nothing came to mind. So what if he had met Trevor at the river? Perhaps some residual magic from the body that had been found there had done something?_

_"What does that have anything to do with—"_

_"My God, boy, think," she said, moving closer. Her eyes pierced into his like nails, and they were narrowed into slits. "You say you know the whole story—perhaps you missed the fact that my parents cursed the land I was buried on." Her face blazed with hatred, so strong that it was as if what they had done had happened yesterday and not centuries ago. "They cursed the land and said whoever would set foot upon the earth that held me, they—"_

_"They would fall in love with the wrong person just as you had, and pay the price the same way." There was dread churning in his stomach now, a dread that chilled him to the bone. "But—but it can't be that—it can't be true," he said, a tad desperately. "Is it?"_

_"The religious inquisition was not entirely wrong about the Belmont family," she said, her face set in harsh lines. "Black magic was not uncommon when I was a child. Curses were almost commonplace. Moreover, they chose to bury me in a Wanderer's Wood, a forest that reeked of dark magic." Her lips twisted in a gruesome half-smile, half-snarl. "They did not realize what it would do to me."_

_"So you're saying—the curse, it's already in motion? It already began?"_

_"The curse took effect the instant he saw me that night," she said, and he knew which night she was referring to immediately; when he had run into the trees claiming to have seen someone and Adrian had run after him, his heart in his throat and thinking that this was the first time he had ever feared so much for someone who wasn't family._

_"No," he heard himself say. "No, it can't be true."_

_"And why not?" She grinned at him, her gaunt, skeletal face splitting in two as she did. He knew she could tell exactly what he was thinking. "You think he does not love you," she said. "You think it is something superficial, something skin-deep."_

_He said nothing, merely looking away from her. Something about the force of her gaze made him feel as if she could read every thought in his head._

_"I cannot speak for him," she said, "but he cares for you a great deal."_

_"Don't," he said, and his voice was sharp. "Just—don't. It doesn't matter. It can't be that. There is no curse—it's just a story."_

_"I was just a story, once," Aalis said softly, her feet touching the ground. She looked out at him with huge, dark eyes. She was so much smaller than he was, and she was about Sypha's height. She looked just as young and delicate, but he knew the power that a woman could wield, no matter her stature—his mother and Sypha could attest to that._

_"I was a story, until you drew me from the pages I was preserved in," she said, and reached up, a palm settling on his cheek. He tried to jerk away but found himself held in place, restrained and unable to move. Her skin was soft and cool, and he felt warmth bleed into his skin even as he fought against her will._

_"You look like him," she whispered, her thumb tracing across his cheek. "The same ageless beauty, the same purity that comes with damnation."_

_"I'm not damned." He finally wrenched himself from her grasp and stepped back, his hands clenching into fists._

_She merely looked at him. "Is your impure blood not evidence enough of the contrary? You are a hybrid, an unholy mix of two kinds that should never meet. What of your eyes? They are neither your father's nor your mother's. It is the color of Lucifer, gold—and he was an angel, once."_

_"Your lover," Adrian said. "He was like me."_

_She ducked her head, and when she raised it, there were translucent tears running down her cheeks, dripping onto the ground where they vanished in wisps of golden mist. There was an unspeakable pain in her face, one that tore at his own heart. "He was," she said._

_"And your family thought that if you chose to love one who wasn't completely human, then you couldn't love at all."_

_"Blood isn't love, Adrian Tepes." She blinked, and her form flickered back into a ravaged monster, her face torn and her skin rotting. "My family hated anyone who was different. You might think they've changed, but they have not. They will not hesitate to brand anyone who they deem... unworthy."_

_"You don't know them," Adrian said. "You don't how they are now. They're different—"_

_"Families like mine do not change, son of Dracula," she said. "No matter how far the years between now and then stretches, it will be traversed. No matter how strong the stone wall history has built between that age and this one, it will be breached. Old practices are the pride of the Belmont family. They thrive on tradition—what makes you think they will not let the earth take your beloved Trevor just as they let it take me?"_

_Her face shimmered back into her human form, pretty and slight. "It is because of your bond with him that I can enter your mind," she said. "As long as it remains strong, I can visit you here, in your dreams." Her smile was devoid of humor._

_"The curse," he said, gritting his teeth, "can it be broken?"_

_"I know not." She smiled, and he wished he could end this here and now, drive his blade through her unbeating heart and kill her. But he knew he couldn't; he had no weapon, and she could not be killed by any he possessed. Moreover, he wasn't even sure if any damage could be incurred here in this spirit realm._

_"But if at all it can be," she said, "it must be broken by the one upon whom it has been inflicted. Only he can raise a hand against his own family's hatred."_

_"There has to be something I can do." He felt frenzied, desperate. "Something that can break it. I could leave here, never come back to the village—or maybe—"_

_"What is done cannot be undone," she said, raising a hand and brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. He flinched away, glaring at her. "Once he falls, the chasm is endless," she whispered. "But when his body breaks against the stones at the bottom he will realize the price he's paid for loving you." Her eyes were twin flames that scorched his soul, so full of hatred that for a moment he felt a spark of true fear, that he would die in his own mind and never see the world again._

_But then she stepped back and the moment passed, and her eyes were once again sad and bitter and old and tired. "For that is what my family told me, as they lowered me into the ground." She drifted backwards, slowly fading into the air, the edges of her body turning translucent._

_"This is the price you pay," she said, "for loving a monster."_

* * *

"Adrian? _Adrian!"_

A frantic, panicked voice drifted vaguely towards him, but his mind was still suffused with the foreign spirit of Aalis and the otherworldly place she'd dragged him to, and he wasn't quite awake yet. He could hear Sypha's fear-stricken voice, and he wanted to call back and open his eyes, but his body refused to move. 

"What's going on?" He heard footsteps, and he heard Trevor's confused voice, still distorted and faraway, as if he were standing at the bottom of a well. 

"He's not waking. I found him just lying here, unconscious—"

"Fuck, he's covered in blood." He felt something brush across his cheek, then his lips. "What do you think happened?"

"Maybe it's the wood." She sounded uncertain. "He said he reacts to it, but..."

"No way it's the wood. Aspen can't knock out a full-blooded vampire, much less a dhampir. It must have been something else. Something in this place—can you feel any magic?"

There was a pause. "No," Sypha said after a moment. "It feels normal." There was another pause. "Do you think...maybe he needs blood?" she asked, tentatively. "He seemed a little tired the last few hours, and he's awfully pale. Though I don't see how he can be bleeding so much—"

"No, sometimes a vampire's body ejects old blood that's been in their bodies for too long," said Trevor's voice, confidently. "It's pretty normal, apparently—it's a sign that they desperately need to feed."

"So is that it?"

"Maybe. Let's check—here." He felt something warm and strong grip his wrist, pulling his gloves off, then pushing up his sleeves till his elbows. There was a second's silence. "Shit," Trevor said finally. "He's starving."

 _I am?_ Adrian felt light-headed, finally nearing the surface of consciousness. He could hardly feel anything. He had to wake up. 

"What do we do?"

There was a long silence that seemed to stretch on for forever—so long that Adrian thought he'd once again slipped under and lost consciousness, until Trevor spoke again. "I'll give him blood," he said. 

_No,_ he thought. He was beginning to wake up now, his body slowly coming to life. He grew conscious of a throbbing pain in his skull first, then the heaviness in his limbs and the ache in his chest—and then he felt the hunger. 

It was overwhelming. 

It slammed into him like a battering ram, blotting everything else out like a vast ocean of bloodlust that made every vein his in body scream in pain. He was painfully aware of every slow beat of his heart, struggling to fill his empty body. His heart contracted in his chest, hard, and the pain it brought with it was so intense he thought he might die. 

And then his senses came to life—and oh, the smell of _blood_. It rose from their skin and filled the air, intense and so unbearably tempting that it eluded his brain completely and traveled straight to his fangs, which he felt sharpen and then extend fully, elongating with an audible click. He felt them slice into his lower lip, and the taste of his own blood made him want to retch. 

"Shit," he heard Trevor say again. "He's waking up."

"Is... is that a bad thing?"

"He's starving out of his mind." He felt the pressure on his wrist vanish, and the scents of their essence got a little fainter. They'd stood up and moved back. "I've never seen a vampire so empty, or drained. He's lost too much blood, it's everywhere. When he wakes up, he's probably not even going to recognize us."

He felt a shift in the air, the thrum of two hearts beating just a little faster, the blood rushing quicker through their living, pulsing veins. It made every vampiric instinct in his body rear up like a wild horse, no thought in its mind but to satiate the ravaging starvation that was tearing him apart. 

Vaguely in the back of his mind he knew that this was because of Aalis. She had practically drained him of blood and energy, forcing him into a starved, half-mad state. She knew that when he woke up, he would be so overcome by his need for blood that he would do anything to fill his veins. Anything at all—even kill for it. 

He didn't want to wake up. He couldn't. 

"He's too weak to regain consciousness on his own," Trevor said. He could hear his pulse, smell his blood, his body aching for it. He knew that locked in his mind like this, his body unable to move, he would be able to suppress most of the instinct that tore at him. But if he opened his eyes and woke up fully, then he didn't know what would happen. He didn't want to know what would happen. 

"What will you do?" Her voice was hardly a whisper. 

"Stand back," he said, though he didn't answer her. He felt a warm, solid presence draw nearer and nearer, until he could all but taste his blood on his tongue. He heard the hiss of leather on steel, and the clear ring of a blade's song. 

_No!_ He tried to move away, to tell Trevor silently that he would get himself killed if he did what he was about to do. Still he couldn't move, trapped and helpless. Somewhere in the very back of his mind Aalis was laughing, and again he heard her words echo in his ears. _This is the price you pay for loving a monster._

Trevor sliced his wrist open. 

The scent of blood exploded in the air, and his whole body tightened like a corkscrew, and pain ripped through him. He heard a low, desperate moan escape his parted lips, one that sounded like a wounded, starving animal's cry. He wanted Trevor's blood, needed it; he didn't want it, he didn't think he would be in control of himself if he got it. 

He felt something warm and sweet drip onto his lips. Against his volition his tongue swept over it, and the taste of Trevor's blood spread like a wildfire through his mouth, then through his whole body. It wasn't enough, though, and he fought against it, turning his face away. 

"Come on, you idiot," hissed Trevor, and he felt more excruciatingly tempting blood drip into his mouth. "Drink it."

He gasped in a breath, trying feebly to get away from it. And just as the pain and unbearable craving began to die down he heard Trevor swear under his breath, then mutter something that sounded like "I'm a fucking disgrace", then felt him press his bleeding wrist against Adrian's mouth. 

Time and space ceased to exist. 

He felt his fangs pierce the tender skin at Trevor's wrist, felt the first drops of blood in his mouth like a gulp of air after nearly drowning in a bottomless ocean of fire. His arm reached up against his will, his fingers wrapping around Trevor's wrist to hold him there as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of blood, his headache receding and his body finally responding to his commands. 

His eyes opened. 

He let go of Trevor's arm. 

Trevor sat back, gingerly holding his bleeding wrist. He said Adrian's name, but he hardly heard it. His eyes locked on the wildly fluttering pulse in Trevor's throat, and his vision narrowed, the world vanishing as his body went rigid. 

And then he lunged. 

Trevor's back hit the floor hard, hard enough for Adrian to hear a distant _crack_ as he did. Adrian moved too quickly for the eye to see, rolling atop Trevor with his knees on either side of his hips to hold him in place. His fingers grasped a fistful of messy dark hair, yanking his head back to expose the vein in his neck. 

His fangs pierced easily through Trevor's skin, and ecstasy headier than anything he had ever experienced coursed through him, the taste of blood on his tongue like a drug that he couldn't get enough of. Vaguely he felt Trevor struggling, calling his name, trying to break free. But Adrian knew that would cease soon. 

And slowly, it did—the bite of a vampire was not only one that took, it gave as well. He felt Trevor's veins flood with the implicating drug, one that made his iron grip on Adrian's coat loosen. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and then a soft sigh of pleasure. Adrian relished in it, in the way his arms now pulled him closer rather then pushing him away, the way he tilted his head to allow Adrian better access. 

He took it willingly, pressing closer, drinking deeper. He hardly cared that if he went on for too long he could kill Trevor; nor did he care that he could tear his throat out with one wrong movement of his head. Nothing mattered anymore, just the blood. 

He heard someone call his name. 

He ignored it. His body felt impossibly light, and distantly he was aware that this was the first time he had ever fed directly from a human, that he had never fed like this. It was exhilarating, impossibly invigorating. And the fact that it was Trevor made it all the sweeter; his skin soft against Adrian's lips, his body warm beneath his own, his soft moans music to his ears. 

His human side was basking in this just as much as his vampire side—half of him focused on the blood, the way it settled in his veins, the way pure vital, mortal essence was filling him and how it tasted on his tongue; and the other half of him latched onto the way Trevor's back arched slightly as he drank, how there was a hitch in his breath when he gasped and how hot his skin was beneath Adrian's.

"Adrian, stop!" He heard a familiar voice break through the haze of pleasure and blood and Trevor in his brain, but his mind didn't immediately recognize it. A small seed of confusion was sowed in his mind. 

"Adrian, you'll kill him," the voice said, angry and afraid. Something grabbed his shoulder hard, biting into his skin, and then it all flooded into him at once. _Sypha. I'm in the Belmont Hold. I was taken over by Aalis, she drained me and told me of the curse. Trevor gave me his blood. Trevor is giving me his blood... I'm taking Trevor's blood. And if I don't stop he will die._

He wrenched himself away almost violently, ripping himself away from Trevor so savagely that his back slammed into the shelf behind him, nearly toppling it. A hand lifted automatically to his lips, pressing to his mouth. He felt his fangs retract slowly, but there was blood on them still, masking the lower half of his face and covering his hands and clothes. 

Trevor shoved himself up on his elbows, gasping for breath. Sypha rushed to his side, dropping to her knees and brushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes and peering into his face. She grabbed his hand, panic written all over her face. Her other hand pressed to his neck, to the two neat little puncture wounds that were still leaking ruby-red drops of blood. 

"I'm fine," he heard him say, though he sounded woozy. "It's okay, I'm fine." He looked up at Adrian, and so did Sypha, both their eyes wide. 

Adrian felt shame and panic and anger and fear all combine in his chest, and he opened his mouth to say something that could explain what had happened, to tell them about what he had found out and that he was the most terrible person and friend—lover?—for doing what he had and that he didn't think they'd ever forgive him. 

But when he spoke, all that came out was a small, soft, "Fuck."

* * *

"I'm so sorry," he said for what felt like the millionth time. "I didn't mean to lose control like that, I swear—"

"Christ's sake, I told you it's fine." Trevor sighed, sitting back and closing his eyes as Sypha dabbed at the wounds on his neck with a pale orange liquid that she'd found in a jar in the section of the library she claimed was the medicinal wing. Adrian had looked at it, identified it immediately, and had deemed it fit for use. 

"I could have killed you."

"You didn't. You stopped." He opened his eyes, gazing unreadably at Adrian and blinking. "I know you wouldn't have."

"If Sypha hadn't been there—"

"Even if Sypha hadn't been there." 

Adrian looked away. He felt regret and shame writhing in his chest, one that intensified whenever he felt the aftereffects of drinking Trevor's blood—he felt light, and everything around him seemed to be three times as clear as it normally was. The only problem now was that Trevor's blood ran in his veins, which he was sure Aalis' plan had been all along. Now it would be even easier for her to get to him. 

"Enough arguing," Sypha said, drawing away from Trevor and moving towards Adrian. "Nothing was nobody's fault, and we will not blame anyone for what happened. If you wish to blame someone, blame Aalis. She did all this, not you." She reached Adrian's side and reached out a hand as if to put it on his shoulder.

He flinched away and she glared at him, reaching out anyway and brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes. Her own eyes softened, and she ran a thoughtful, careful, gentle hand down his face. He shut his eyes, stilling at her electrifying touch. She calmed him, invariably, no matter how he was feeling. 

"You're covered in blood," she said softly. "I'll go get something to clean you up." She drew away, nodding. As she left, she turned and pointed at them. "And no silly arguing while I'm gone," she said, then disappeared among the shelves and racks. 

He sighed, watching her go. He was crouched on the floor, and Trevor was sitting up on a table, leaning back on his hands. There was a silence between them, one that was finally broken when Trevor spoke again. 

"Stop," he said. 

Adrian looked up. "I'm not doing anything."

"You're blaming yourself, I can tell." He slid off the table, kneeling next to Adrian on the floor. He tried as hard as he could not to cringe away from the wounds in his neck, on his wrist. "You were dying," Trevor said, putting a cautious hand on Adrian's knee. "I did what I had to."

"I'd rather have died."

"God, you vampires," Trevor said. "You all have a taste for the melodramatic, you know that?" He sighed. "It was a bit of blood, that's all. Even if my ancestors are all probably rolling in their graves with despair and disappointment, I know I saved you. And that's what's more important to me."

His cheeks reddened a little. "And hell, I can't say I didn't like it. Just a little."

Adrian laughed softly. "Did you?"

"Admit it, it was sort of sexy." He grinned, and it pulled a laugh from Adrian that was startlingly genuine. "It was not sexy," he said. 

"It was."

"It wasn't."

"It was."

"All right, I'll admit it, it was." He laughed again and Trevor looked at him a little strangely; but before Adrian could ask him if anything was wrong he'd already leaned forward and fit his lips to his. 

He smiled a little against Trevor's mouth, a hand tangling in the soft hair at the back of his neck as he pulled him closer. It was warm and sweet and a little awkward, but Adrian basked in it all the same. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, mindful not to cut Trevor with his fangs as he did. _Once was quite enough,_ he thought wryly. 

Adrian resurfaced a few blissful minutes later for air, resting his forehead against Trevor's. "I still feel terrible about biting you," he murmured. 

"Don't," said Trevor. "And plus, you're totally welcome to try biting me in _other_ places too, if you want—"

"Trevor!" He was laughing already, which ruined the indignant tone he'd had in mind. He swatted his shoulder, still giggling a bit. "Lecherous creature," he said. 

"You like it when I'm lecherous," Trevor said with a grin, leaning forward again. 

"And damn me if I know why." 

Their lips had just touched again when Adrian heard Sypha's footsteps approaching a few yards away. He pulled back hastily, blinking and a little deprived just as Sypha turned the corner into the wing of the library they were sitting in, carrying a bucket and a sponge cloth. She said nothing at the sight of Trevor crouched beside Adrian, both blushing a little and not looking at each other, but he could tell she was fighting a smile. 

She knelt on his other side, setting the bucket down and dipping the cloth inside. He turned towards her as she raised it to his face, gently wiping away the streaks of rust-colored blood that had crusted and dried on his cheeks. The water was warm, hot almost, and soothing against his skin. 

"So," she said as she tenderly wiped his cheek with the cloth, "now Aalis knows we know everything about her."

"More or less." He had obviously avoided telling them about the curse, skillfully avoiding it and telling them everything else. He shut his eyes as the hot, damp cloth dragged lightly across his skin. It was calming, despite everything, and it didn't escape his notice how every few seconds Sypha's fingers brushed against his skin. 

"So how'd she get into your head?" asked Trevor, standing and making his way to a shelf. He slid a random book from it and opened it, flipping through aimlessly. "We're nowhere near her grave."

"About that..." He swallowed, biting his lip. "She said she could manipulate dreams, and it's strong no matter the distance."

"But you weren't asleep," observed Sypha, dipping the cloth back into the water, which was now tinged a faint pink. "She just acted on your aversive reactions to the wood and holy objects, didn't she?"

"In a way." He felt terrible for lying, but he wasn't ready to tell them about the curse just yet. "She preyed on the weakness, made me lose blood and energy, then got into my mind."

Sypha looked lost in thought. "I don't see how that's possible," she said. "Unless her spirit is somehow tied to something in the Hold, I don't understand how she could have reached into your head."

He was saved from answering as she set the cloth down, gently pushing his coat off his shoulders. He let her, merely holding himself upright as she pulled it off, setting it aside as she wiped the blood streaking his throat and collarbone. Her fingers curled beneath the collar of his shirt, pulling the neck aside slightly to dab at the blood dried there. 

Her touch was soft and gentle but he felt it like it was magnified a hundred times—no one had ever touched him there, at the sensitive skin at his throat. It made little flutters of sensation travel over his skin, and he sucked in a breath as he felt a slow shiver trickle down his spine. He shut his eyes, sighing. 

"Am I hurting you?" She sounded worried, and he opened his eyes to see her own mere inches from his, wide and full of concern. Her soft, full lips were curled downwards in an anxious frown. He'd have liked nothing more than to lean forward and kiss her worry away, but he couldn't—not when Trevor was standing not two feet away.

"No," he said, settling for reaching up and covering her hand with his own. She laced her fingers with his gratefully, smiling and ducking her head as she dipped the cloth back into the water. "Good," she said, sponging the blood off the skin just below his clavicle. "Tell me if anything pains you or causes discomfort."

He hummed his assent, closing his eyes again as she continued slowly cleaning his skin. He could hear nothing beside the gentle splash of the water in the bucket and the rustling of paper for a while, and he felt himself relaxing, being lulled into semiconsciousness by the warmth of Trevor and Sypha's presences and the sound of their breath. 

He opened his eyes, afraid of falling asleep; now that his veins were full of Belmont blood there was no telling what kind of power Aalis had over him now. Sypha was still industriously cleaning the blood off him, and she was leaning close, so close he could smell her sweet, maddening scent, and see the soft curve of her throat where the neck of her robe slipped. Her brows were drawn together in concentration, and there was a small line between them that he found unfairly cute. 

He cut his eyes up to Trevor. "Could you bring the bestiary from where you kept it?" he asked. "We could work on it now, and it'd help knowing what we've just found out."

Trevor nodded, placing the book back in its respective place. "Yeah, good idea," he said, turning to leave. "I'll try and see if I can find some more books that'll help too." He moved towards the shelves again, his fingers brushing across Adrian's shoulder as he passed him. "Sit tight," was all he said before he vanished further into the library, his heartbeat fading within moments. 

Sypha looked down, sitting back a little as she dipped the cloth back into the water, casting her eyes downwards. He could see the coppery brushstrokes of her eyelashes against her cheek as she did, and the way the soft skin of her lip dented as she bit it. She looked up again, leaning forward to dab at his neck with the cloth. 

His hand came up, fingers looping around her wrist to stop her. Her eyes cut to his, startled, just as he leaned forward, tilting his head and kissing her softly on the lips. 

He felt her sigh against his mouth, shifting closer as she kissed him back, making a soft, pleased sound when his tongue eased her lips open, searching for the taste of her mouth. She tasted warm and sweet and safe—like home, comforting and promising. She drew away a few seconds later, smiling at him a little dazedly. 

"Why do I get the feeling you sent Trevor to get the book so that you could kiss me?" she asked, her finger tracing lightly across his throat. He laughed softly, leaning forward and placing another soft kiss on her neck. She exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening on the cloth in her hand. 

"It's true—mostly, anyway," he murmured against her skin. "If Trevor were here, how would I be able to do this"—he allowed his tongue to trace up the sweep of her skin and she gasped—"or this?" He pressed a line of bruising kisses down the column of her throat and she said his name in a breathy whisper that made his whole body tighten deliciously.

He raised his head head just as she lowered hers and their lips met again, this time with a thinly controlled hunger that made heat spread through him as if the same fire Sypha controlled with such ease was burning inside him as well. Her fingers freed the cloth she was holding and then her hand curved around his shoulder, her tongue curling against his own and making desire knot tightly in his stomach. 

Her hands slid underneath the hem of his shirt and then her fingers were on his bare skin, tracing the lines of his abdomen upwards to his chest. His heart quickened beneath her fingers and he heard himself give a soft groan against her lips as her touch grew bolder, her palms pressing to his chest as she kissed him harder. 

Suddenly he felt that she wasn't close enough. His arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled her into his lap, her legs curving around his hips as the angle of the kiss changed. She was elevated slightly now, her fingers curling on his chest as she murmured softly against his mouth. He pulled away with a jerk of his head, his fingers threading into her hair as he tilted her head back, his lips finding the soft skin of her throat. 

Her back arched and she said his name again, in that breathless voice that made heat scorch through him. She was soft and warm and smelled dizzyingly of blood and arousal, and it made his head spin, his mouth going dry. Her fingers dug into his skin and the pain mixed deliciously with the heady pleasure of her kisses, a maddening blend. 

"We should—" She sucked in a breath as he mouthed at her pulse, swallowing her racing heartbeat. "We should stop—Trevor will come back any minute—"

Was that guilt in her voice? He couldn't tell, but he drew away all the same, breathing hard, his whole body alight with the feeling of her touch and her lips. He felt so disoriented that he nearly felt his tongue slip, a hairsbreadth from telling her everything about him and Trevor, how he cared for both of them the same way that was yet entirely different, that he wanted to be with them both. 

But he held himself back, and merely nodded, letting her go. She quickly scrambled off his lap, blushing as she straightened her robes and tugged on her hair, which was in utter disarray. She wasn't looking at him as she did, her cheeks still pink. Adrian pulled on his coat, running his fingers through his own hair to bring it back to some semblance of normalcy. 

When Trevor returned with the bestiary and another armful of books in his other hand they were both sitting the same way they were before he'd left—Sypha having continued to clean the blood off his arms—and while he said nothing and merely set them all on the table, he glanced at them and raised an eyebrow. 

Why did Adrian have the oddest feeling that this was all much more complicated than it seemed?

* * *

He slipped out the back door, shutting it softly behind him. 

The sun had just set, and it cast long, pale shadows across the ground. He walked along them, his head down against the burgeoning evening. He could hear the din of crickets, the screeches of bats and the last vestiges of birdsong as the day came to an end and evening sprang into the sky. 

He walked a good few miles until he arrived at the clearing, one that was wide and nearly perfectly circular, ringed by tall poplars as if they were standing guard. The sky was nearly fully dark now, and the first stars were beginning to emerge. The moon was rising, pale and translucent, a silver crescent smiling mockingly at him from its high perch in the crushed-black velvet of the sky.

He stood in the middle of the clearing, glancing around sourly. "I'm here," he called. "I came, just as you asked."

A cloaked figure emerged from the trees directly in front of him, moving forward until they were standing close enough to touch. He could see icy blue eyes beneath the cowl of their hood, glittering and calculating. Pale, slender hands capped with talons three inches long and painted blood-red drew the hood down, revealing a waterfall of silver hair and a familiar, sharp and beautiful face that he nevertheless hated the sight of. 

"I'm surprised," Carmilla said. "I must admit I didn't expect you to come—what was it you said? That's right; you had... _plans."_

"Yes, well," he said shortly. "Plans change."

"Hmm." She smiled at him, and it was full of fangs and thinly veiled malice. "I'm glad you're finally beginning to see this as the priority it is."

"What do you want?" He was already beginning to lose patience; with Carmilla, he was always just that bit more irritable. "I already told you I won't step aside and let you undo everything my father has done to help our community."

"Straight to business it is, then." She dropped her cloak, which slithered to the ground at her feet. She stepped out of it, taking a step forward towards him. "I didn't call you here to waste my breath on telling you what to do, Alucard."

He eyed her, chary. "Oh? Then why did you call me here?"

She smiled, taking another step closer. He refrained from moving back with difficulty, and she leaned forward, her voice dropping. "I'm not here to threaten you," she said. "I'm here to make a deal with you."

He leaned back, startled. "What sort of deal?"

She tutted, stepping back again with a hand on her hip. "I won't tell you a word so long as you don't tell a soul. Not daddy, or mummy, or anyone. Unless you swear it, my lips are sealed."

He warred with himself briefly, then gave a short nod. "Fine. I swear not to tell anyone."

Her eyes were like chips of diamond in the dimness; hard and cold and glimmering. "Fabulous," she said crisply. She outlined her plan quickly, and he felt his brows rise and his mouth fall open by the time she was finished. 

"That's what you want me to do?" He stared at her, stunned. "That's insane. I'll be caught."

"Not if you're careful." She crossed her arms, looking out at him expressionlessly. "So, what will it be, Alucard? Do we have a deal?" She held out hand expectantly, her face blank save for a faint gleam in her eye. 

After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and shook it. 

She smiled, and he wondered if he'd made the right choice in working with her. Carmilla was a dangerous ally to have, but she was an even more dangerous enemy. He'd have to tread more carefully than he ever had in his life to stay a step ahead of her. 

"Excellent," she said, her red lips curling into a satisfied smile. "Now let's get down to business, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, happy pride month, y'all. 🌈🌈  
> And shoutout to my fellow disaster bis. I see you, and I understand the pain of having a crush on every character in Castlevania. Know that you're not alone.


	15. Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Windows:** _Doorways into the soul, health, growth and having the courage to change._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is so fucking late!! Summer started and then I had an internship, and then writer's block came creeping up on me when I tried to write. But please have this nice long Trephacard-filled chapter as an apology in which backstories are exchanged and curses are discussed.

**_Trevor_ **

A small twinge of pain darted up his neck and he winced. 

For the fifth or sixth time in fifteen minutes he lifted a hand to the sore wounds in his throat, just where his pulse fluttered underneath his skin. The two small puncture wounds were nearly fully healed already—most likely owing to the restorative properties of vampire saliva. It was sort of gross, but oh well, he thought as he lowered his hand again. Things could be a lot worse. 

He shifted amidst the tangle of blankets and pillows that he'd made of his bed, trying to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. So far he'd had no luck; unfortunately one of the aftereffects of getting bitten by a vampire was having fever-dreams that kept you up all night. Among others, of course—random parts of his body would occasionally tingle as if someone had injected champagne into his blood, and he couldn't shake off the strangely vivid memory of Adrian's body pressing against his, the pressure of his lips, the strength in his hands. 

He knew what he'd done was deliberately setting fire to his family's beliefs and practices, and that if anyone found out, he would be kicked off the land and shunned. He'd known that, and he'd still done it, because he hadn't been able to stand the sight of Adrian lying there, drying blood all over his clothes and hands and face. His eyes had been closed, and the shadows beneath them made them look like bruises in his face. 

Trevor had thought for half a second that he was dead—his chest hardly rose and fell when he breathed, and he'd been completely still. But then he'd felt his breaths on his fingers when he moved to wipe the blood off his lips, and the relief had slammed into him so hard it had left him breathless. 

He sighed, placing a hand across his eyes. There was something else about what had happened, something he didn't want to admit. In that one fleeting second when Adrian had pinned him to the floor and he'd felt his fangs pierce through his skin, when he'd felt his own blood being sucked into Adrian's body, slowly draining him—he hadn't cared. He would have let Adrian keep drinking from him until there was nothing left. 

And the worst thing was, something about it had latched onto him, a small bit of the drug he'd felt flow into his blood from Adrian's fangs not having burned itself out of his bloodstream entirely. It stayed burrowed far underneath his skin, small enough to ignore if he tried but just large enough to make it uncomfortable and obvious. 

Which meant that now his body was craving more of it. 

Which in turn meant that somehow he was, in a way, addicted to whatever Adrian's fangs had injected into his blood. 

Which led to the conclusion that he basically wanted to be bitten again. 

_Shit,_ he thought, tiredly. As if this whole situation wasn't fucked up enough already. It didn't help at all that his blood wasn't the only thing craving Adrian's closeness. It had been entirely too intimate, too close and carnal and just so _amatory_ in a way that it had made him want to break apart in shards.

He found himself drifting, merely floating along the fine line between dream and reality, between unconsciousness and wakefulness. At one point he managed to nod off, only to jerk awake again when a particularly vivid dream forced his eyes open, and he sat bolt upright, only realizing where he was a few minutes later. 

Come dawn he was still wide awake, shivering and burning all at once. The ache in his blood had only grown in intensity, and he felt like he had a fever—only this was different, somehow, different in the way that he felt like he was dreaming even when he was awake, the world swimming in front of his eyes when he finally swung his legs out of bed. 

He stumbled to the bathroom, blindly staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked—well, like shit. There were huge dark circles beneath his eyes, which looked wide and sleepy and drugged all at the same time. There were two faded marks on his neck, so light against his skin that he wouldn't have been able to see them if he didn't know they were there. 

He allowed his fingers to reach up again, ghosting over them, and he saw his reflection, the way his lip caught on his teeth and how the pulse in his neck was fluttering madly beneath his skin. He knew he was afraid, that he had been, for weeks now, but he hadn't said a word. 

He turned away from the mirror, feeling his throat close up at it had been for so many days now, all the thoughts rushing into his mind at once and leaving him drowning under it all, the sheer weight of what could be. He'd never been one to put his faith in curses and prophecy, but this was something he couldn't ignore.

He gazed down at his hands, lying curled in loose fists, still and useless. There were little scars and nicks all over his skin, testaments and reminders of countless battles, hundreds of times he'd raised his whip or his sword against the night. He could face down an army from hell, but he couldn't face himself, couldn't face his own tangle of emotion.

He took in a shuddering breath, closing his eyes. Before last night, he could write it off, what he felt for Adrian. But now he couldn't ignore it. Now he was thinking and thinking himself into hopeless circles, and each one began where the other ended. 

And now there was Sypha...

He wrenched his thoughts away from her, swallowing hard. He wouldn't think about Sypha. He couldn't afford to—even if he felt like he trusted her, even if when he was with her, he was happy, that it became so much easier to laugh if she was there. And now, terrifyingly enough, he was beginning to think the curse on his family and the curse on him wasn't just about Adrian anymore. 

_Anyone who should tread there would meet the same fate that she did; to fall in love with the wrong person and pay the same price..._ Had he? Had he fallen in love with someone he wasn't supposed to? Or was there someone else now in the mix, neither of whom he could ignore—?

He put his head in his hands, willing the thoughts away. If the curse was real, then there was nothing he could do but try as hard as he could to kill Aalis before anything could happen, to stop the curse before it could come into effect in full. 

And if that meant spilling the same blood that rain in his own veins—then so be it.

* * *

"There." He sat back, setting the massive eagle-feather quill down, leaning back and cracking his aching knuckles to admire his handiwork. "Looks okay, doesn't it?"

"Your handwriting isn't half bad," Sypha said, leaning forward with a glint in her eye as she examined the blank pages of the bestiary, now covered in Trevor's careful writing, the ink gleaming black and fresh. "I was expecting an illegible scribble."

"Hey now." He stretched, sighing. "I was ruthlessly trained by my mother. I actually write neater than all my sisters."

"I sincerely doubt that." She smiled at him sideways, a curl of strawberry-blonde falling over her eyes. 

"Really." He flexed his fingers. "I'll bet my handwriting is better than yours."

"You wish," she snorted, eyes skimming over the words he'd written. 

"You're a Speaker." He blew on the ink to dry it faster, waving a hand over it. "You're not even supposed to write stuff."

"So?" She looked up at him, blinking wide blue eyes that glittered with teasing mischief. "I'm perfectly literate both ways."

"Let's see whose handwriting looks better." He deftly flipped to the last page of the book, handing Sypha the quill. She smirked, taking it from him and brandishing it with an exaggerated sweep. "Prepare to lose, Belmont," she said loftily. 

She dipped the quill into the ink and set it to the paper, and wrote in bold, looping letters, _Sypha's handwriting is prettier than Trevor's_. 

"Ha." He peered down at it. "Mine is better."

"No, it isn't." She thrust the quill at him and he scratched out _Sypha's just jealous that Trevor can write neater_ below what Sypha had written. 

"I am _not_." She hit his shoulder lightly. "Anyone with eyes can see my writing is neater. Look, yours is so... bendy and cramped. Mine is filled out and clear." She smiled benignly. 

"I can't even tell the difference between t and i." He squinted down at the perfectly distinguishable t and i on the sheet Sypha had written. "It's all just lines."

"That's because they are lines, genius." She peered down at it as well. "They're straight lines."

"No, they're not really. If you—"

"This sounds like a scintillating argument," said a voice behind them, and they both turned to see Adrian moving towards them with a bemused expression on his face and a book in his hand. "Whether the letters i and t are lines. Really stimulating." He grinned and sat opposite them, setting his book down. "I think my gray matter is dying just listening to you two."

Sypha huffed, undeterred. "Adrian, my handwriting is neater, isn't it?" She picked the bestiary up and practically shoved it in Adrian's face. He raised an eyebrow before taking it, lowering his gaze to read. He appeared to be fighting a smile as he lowered it, his eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth. 

"Both your handwriting is equally neat," he said, "but I'm afraid neither of you stand a chance against mine." And with that he picked the quill up, dipped it into the ink, and wrote _But they both know Adrian's is the neatest_ with a flourish in perfect, flawless joined letters. 

Trevor and Sypha blinked down at the book, then exchanged a glance. Adrian admired it for a moment, then set the book down, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "So as you can see, therein ends your argument."

"How are you good at everything?" Sypha huffed, snatching the quill from him and flipping the pages back to where they'd left off filling it in. Adrian's smug little smile widened, and he leaned back on his hands. 

"Don't encourage him," Trevor told her. "You'll never hear the end of it."

Adrian laughed, pulling the book towards him and reading, flipping through the three or four pages Trevor had filled, writing everything based on memory. Sypha had helped him out where he couldn't remember exact details, and her own experience, and slowly they'd filled a good amount of pages. 

"It's missing something," Adrian said once he'd finished reading, lowering the book. Without waiting for them to react he picked the quill up again, setting the book on the ground again. He set its tip to a blank page, and then—then he started to draw.

Bold, clear lines blossomed across the paper, flowing from the tip of the quill guided by Adrian's hand. It was almost hypnotizing, watching the way a few lines and curves and edges could so clearly make up a near-perfect image of Aalis, crosses scoured into her open palms and her eyes blazing. 

The quill skated across the sheet, and then there was Aalis before she had died, with smooth skin and wide eyes and her lips slightly parted. It was perfect—and it looked oddly real, even though it was a quickly done line sketch. Adrian's tongue was poking out just a bit from between his lips, his eyes darkening as he concentrated. 

Finally he leaned back, setting the quill down. The drawings took up about half the page, but they were bold and clear and delicate almost, and there was a sort of nostalgia to them, something that suggested that he had drawn her with a lingering sadness that had painted itself into the ink. 

"Visual representation is important," he said, as if in reply to their stunned expressions. "If it's absent, then much of the enriching experience of reading, especially about something that's true and has been observed can be lost. Moreover, it's important to know how she looked, for future reference... why are you looking at me like that?"

They were both staring at him, and Trevor imagined he probably looked as surprised as Sypha did. "I had no idea you could draw so beautifully," she said, pulling the book towards her and gazing down at the sketches. "They're lovely."

Adrian blushed a little. "It's nothing—just a hobby, really."

"It looks so real." Trevor traced one of the dramatic, curving lines of the sketch upward, following its bold arc. He looked up. "I didn't know you draw."

His blush deepened. "It... it never really came up," he said. "Well, now you know."

Sypha admired the sketches for a few more seconds, then set the book down. "Now it's complete," she said. "You're right, visuals can help. Now, if we can just add a little more about her textually, it'll be perfect."

"I imagine this would help a great deal, if only there was more than one hunter this could possibly aid," Adrian mused, glancing at Trevor, "but I imagine we could benefit from this as well."

He reached for the book, flipping the pages. "There's still so much we don't know about her," he said softly, a finger brushing over the words Trevor had inked into the paper. "We know so little."

Trevor stood, feeling his cramped muscled loosen as he did with audible cracks. Both Sypha and Adrian glanced up at him from where they were crouched on the floor over the book, and Adrian raised a quizzical eyebrow. 

"Stretching my legs," he said by way of explanation, walking backwards to keep them in sight. "I've been sitting cooped up in here all night, give me some credit here. I'm a hunter, not a scholar." He grinned as Sypha rolled her eyes at him, then turned and made his way deeper into the shelves. 

There was some pretty interesting stuff in this library; he could have combed through it all, but it'd take him weeks of relentless searching. He'd found all sorts of weapons stashed away in nooks and hidden shelves, and he'd have been stupid not to pocket them, so he had.

A flash of gold caught his eye. 

He stopped a few paces away, then frowned and stepped back. It winked out at him again, the same little flash. He moved towards it, intrigued. The flash had evidently come from the little cupboard he could see, one that was open just a crack. Knowing this place, it could be something priceless, or dangerous, or both. 

He drew the cupboard open, kneeling in front of it. Inside sat a heavy-looking golden chest chased with metalwork and with the family crest gleaming on the domed top. His heart leaped into his throat as he recognized the symbols etched into the sides, ones whose meaning jumped out at him, translating themselves instantly in his mind. 

_Vampire Killer._

"No way," he muttered to himself, his heart pounding. He pulled the chest out of its hiding place, a hand absentmindedly running over the top to clean it of dust as he did. It was locked—of course it was locked—with a heavy brass padlock, one that he knew he could break easily. 

He ran a hand over the lock, then fished a slender misericorde from his belt, sliding the sharp edge into the lock. He pulled right, then upward, then down—and the latch popped open, hanging off the handle. He drew it away, setting it aside. 

He sat back, then carefully reached out a hand, unlatching the top of the chest, feeling oddly afraid as he grasped the edges of the lid, heaving it upwards. The rusted hinges squealed their protest as he did, but he paid it no heed as he gazed down into the chest, his breath catching in his throat. 

It was a whip—no, it was _the_ whip. Crafted flawlessly from consecrated iron, it shone as if it had been forged yesterday and not centuries ago. The Belmont crest was etched into the crossguard, and it was coiled in elegant loops of chain, and he could see even where it lay that its length was formidable. 

He drew the mass of gleaming metal from the crushed velvet it lay on, and it felt cool and almost alive in his hands. His fingers fit perfectly around the gleaming wooden handle, almost as if it were made for his hands. He stood, allowing the chain to fall. On its other end was a carved piece of metal, deadly sharp and still glinting cruelly. 

He stared down at it. This whip—this whip was the legacy of his whole family, embodied into one object. This was the soul of the Belmont family. This is what made them hunters. It was this whip that held the soul of the woman who convinced Leon Belmont to declare war against all night. 

And Trevor was going to wield it. 

He moved towards where Adrian and Sypha were sitting, nearly running. He careened into the marble entryway, skidding to a stop where they were still sprawled on the floor, murmuring to each other and adding details into the book. 

They both looked up as he stopped above them, and Adrian's eyes immediately dropped to the whip in his hands. They widened fractionally. 

"I found it," Trevor said, holding it up. "They hid it, but I found it."

Sypha made a face at it. "What is it?"

"The Morning Star whip," Adrian answered for him, standing and moving towards Trevor. He reached out, a finger coming to rest on the metal. A moment later he hissed and drew his arm back; an angry red burn had risen on his skin in reaction to the blessed iron. He placed his finger in his mouth, gazing at the whip ruefully. 

"It's the first weapon of the Belmont family, if I'm not mistaken," he said, drawing his finger from between his lips and examining the fading burn. 

Trevor nodded, looping the chain in perfect coils and hanging it from his belt. It jangled cheerfully against his thigh, a comfortable weight. "It's the most valuable thing in this whole place," he said. "They called it Vampire Killer."

Sypha glanced at Adrian, then stood up as well. "Well, it's not very good-looking, is it?" she asked, rather disdainfully. Trevor blinked, frowning. "It is," he protested. "And I'll bet it works even better." He raised his head, stepping in front of Adrian. "Care to help me test it out?"

Adrian's eyes slewed to his own, and they were dark and unreadable. "You want to fight," he translated. 

"'Fight' is a strong word." He put a hand on the handle of the Morning Star. "How about 'friendly training'?"

Adrian's own hand had strayed to the hilt of his sword at his hip, and Trevor could tell he was starved for this, for a fight; they'd all been sitting and researching too long. He knew Adrian was restless, that he needed this as much as Trevor did. 

"Friendly training," he repeated, deadpan, and for some reason the languid, consuming look in his eyes made Trevor blush, flustered. So naturally, his mouth worked before his brain could catch up. 

"Unless you're afraid," he said. 

His eyes lit like warning lamps, and he grinned at Trevor, a grin full of fangs. "You think I'm afraid of you, or your whip?" He stepped back, drawing his sword in one smooth movement. He let go of it and it hovered beside him, staying aloft guided by his will. He shucked off his coat, letting it fall to the floor, and kicked it away once it fell. 

"Boys," Trevor heard Sypha mutter. Then she cleared her throat. "If you're both done with your alpha male mating routine—"

Trevor choked. "What?"

"—then I would like to intervene." She stepped forward, ignoring Adrian and Trevor's stutters. "Is your... 'friendly training' open to a third opponent?"

Her tone was innocuous, but he saw the way she was standing—straight and almost stiff, with her chin tilted up as if to challenge them. Trevor grasped the handle of his whip, drawing it in a mass of metal coils. "You're both going down," he said in reply, stepping back with a grin. 

He saw her shoulders relax almost imperceptibly, and an answering smile tugged at her own lips. "Challenge accepted, Belmont," she said, and raised a hand, the air over her palm bending with an audible _snap_. A concentrated ball of blue fire sprang to life, pulsing in the air. 

There were a few moments of silence as all three of them assessed each other—weighing attacks and options as the tension in the air built almost palpably. They were standing apart in a perfectly equilateral triangle, though none of them knew it. Trevor wondered idly which of them would decide to go for the offensive and attack first. 

A second later he got his answer. 

A shard of ice the size of his arm came whistling towards him and he dodged, spinning away from the attack. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Adrian leap out of the way of another of Sypha's spears, vaulting over its path in a perfect backflip as he caught his sword out of the air. 

Trevor cast out his whip, feeling the way it extended fluidly with a clink of metal, slicing through the shard of ice he'd dodged. Sypha spun into his line of sight, a ball of fire coalescing out of the air as she attacked simultaneously, without stopping. He hardly had time to admire her tirelessness before Adrian materialized out of thin air in front of him, raising his blade. 

Trevor ducked, then leaped back, extending his arm. The Morning Star looped firmly around Adrian's blade, and Trevor yanked hard. Adrian's fingers freed the blade and it clattered to the floor with the rattle of metal. Before he could move to retrieve it Sypha kicked it out of reach, and it spun away into the shelves. 

She flexed her fingers and a fire erupted from her skin, a ball of it racing towards Trevor. He dodged, and saw a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye as he flicked his wrist. The whip coiled up almost obediently, wrapping around his arm. He drew his sword, stilling with both whip and blade poised ready, at his disposal. Sypha was standing with both hands raised, a flame hovering over her palm. 

Where Adrian had been standing, a snow-white wolf was growling at them, golden eyes simmering with predatory rage. It prowled slowly towards them, keeping them both in sight as it advanced, looking left and right, its lithe body tense. 

Without warning its eyes flashed into red, and then Adrian's blade shot towards them from the shadows, spinning through the air. Adrian leaped, catching the sword between his teeth in midair as he did. With a jerk of his head he sent the blade streaking towards Sypha, who brought a hand up, a massive blade of ice forming to intercept it. 

Adrian leaped for Trevor, snarling, and Trevor turned his blade away as the massive wolf crashed into him, sending them both to the ground. Trevor's shoulder connected with the ground and he rolled immediately to his knees, the whip uncoiling from his arm and snaking towards Adrian. 

Adrian dodged nimbly, slipping past Trevor's guard and nipping at his arm. He hissed, jerking back as he looked down at his arm—there was a long, white scratch on his skin, but thankfully the cut hadn't opened, and there was no blood. He cast out his whip to its full length, and the wolf leaped aside, and he saw another flash of gold.

He hit the ground in his human form, rolling effortlessly to his knees as he did. His hair was disheveled and tumbled around his shoulders in messy, starry loops, but his face was set into a snarl as he held a hand out, his sword shooting into his waiting fingers in a blur of silver. He lifted it, and the whip's metal chain looped tightly around it with the clang of metal on metal.

Sypha snatched the advantage, making a fist. A spike of ice shot towards Trevor and another towards Adrian, and both were forced to react quickly, moving back—but Adrian was quicker, and he yanked hard on Trevor's whip. It slithered from his grasp, and though he made a desperate swipe for it, it evaded him. 

Trevor lifted his blade and the ice crashed into it, making his arm shudder with the impact. Adrian swung his blade wide, and the Morning Star, still wrapped around it, whipped through the air, Sypha's shard of ice shattering against the hilt. Trevor winced at the damage, but it appeared unmarked as Adrian cast it aside, the chain sliding off his sword. 

Sypha attacked again—she was startlingly offensive, Trevor thought—and a shear of ice careened towards Adrian, who lifted his blade and leaped back a second too late; it sliced through his shirt, opening up a shallow cut across his chest. The torn halves of his shirt hung off his shoulders, and the edges were spotted with blood. 

His eyes narrowed, then he vanished in a flash of red, reappearing directly in front of Sypha, blade raised. She ducked, slipping through his guard. Rather than attacking she went for defense, merely blocking his repeated swings with spikes of ice so thick they were like blades themselves. Trevor eyed his whip, decided it was too risky to go after it, then wondered where the hell he could attack, then decided, _fuck this._

He charged, swinging his blade towards Adrian's hilt, where his defense was weakest. Adrian snarled as Trevor pressed his attack, driving him back inch after inch. Finally he surged backwards with a growl, spinning and kicking Trevor's blade. His foot struck Trevor's fingers hard and the pain forced him to release it, drawing his hand back with a startled curse. 

He saw Sypha's eyes narrow, and then he saw a blur of red and gold. He heard Adrian's sharp intake of breath, heard the clatter of metal hitting the floor—and then a blazing sphere of fire was hovering an inch from his eyes, searing into his vision. He winced, looking away, and saw Adrian kneeling with a similar ball of fire lighting his features to liquid gold. 

Sypha was standing between them, her hands held out and looking sweaty and tired but smiling triumphantly. "Checkmate," she panted, lowering her hands. The fire winked out, and she moved towards Adrian, holding out a hand. 

He grasped her fingers and allowed her to pull him up, looking at her with a mixture of fear and respect and awe. "I... you... that was er, good," he said, and Trevor saw him blushing visibly. "I mean, you were good," he added hastily, his cheeks reddening further. 

She smiled at him, dropping her hand. "Thank you."

"Yeah, proved me wrong there, didn't you?" Trevor sighed, picking up his blade from where Adrian had kicked it earlier. "You properly knocked me on my arse just now."

"I know," she laughed, reaching him and patting his arm. He felt an odd swooping in his stomach at her touch and tried to convince himself it was the aftereffects of the fight. "I hope you didn't go easy on me because I'm a girl," she added, her eyes glittering as she raised an eyebrow. 

"If anything, I tried harder," Adrian said smoothly, smiling charmingly at her. His shirt was in veritable tatters now, and the shallow cut that sliced across his chest was fully healed already. There was blood on his skin, but the wound was closed. He peeled the two halves of the shirt off his shoulders, sighing as he repentantly gazed at the remains. 

"You can thank Sypha for the state of that," Trevor said, nodding at him and absolutely _not_ staring at his very, startlingly bare chest that seemed like acres and acres of pale, smooth and unmarked skin, and the slender alabastrine column of his throat and the chiseled muscles of his chest and abdomen—

He looked away from Adrian with an effort, and caught Sypha staring at Adrian too, her lips slightly parted and her cheeks slightly pink. She bit her lip and glanced away, caught Trevor watching her with a brow raised, blushed some more, and looked away. He glanced at Adrian, who was looking between Trevor and Sypha bemusedly. 

"Er... do you have a needle and thread?" Adrian gestured at Trevor with the remains of his shirt. "I can mend this."

 _I think I'd prefer it you just wandered around shirtless,_ Trevor thought. 

Adrian raised an eyebrow at him. "That's flattering, but I can't go home like this, it'll lead to some awkward questions from my parents."

"Fuck, did I say that out loud?" He sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes. "Sorry."

He was smiling slightly. "Not at all."

Trevor gestured. "There's needles and thread in the cases, though the needles are made from vampire bones, so you'll have to sort of—"

"I'll be fine," Adrian said with a roll of his eyes. He swept off, moving away into the shelves, picking up his coat from the floor as he did. 

Sypha and Trevor watched him go, Sypha with a look of faint amusement. "You know," she said, "I don't think I'd mind it if he went without a shirt either."

He glanced at her, surprised, and she smiled at him before running a hand through her hair, sighing as she did. "I suppose we all needed that, didn't we?"

"Yeah," he snorted, sliding his blade back into its sheath and moving to retrieve the Morning Star where it lay glittering under the lamplight. "Yeah, I guess we did. There was too much energy and not a medium to channel it—and no amount of nerding out could possibly expend it all."

Sypha laughed, moving over to one of the shelves with a few strange-looking contraptions sitting on it, frosted with white dust. She picked one up, running a slender finder over the intricate designs etched into its surface, and blew the dust off the top. There was a handle on one end, curved and evidently meant to be turned. 

She glanced at Trevor and he merely shrugged, looping the whip at his belt and moving towards her. "It might explode or something," he said, reaching her side. "But..."

She rolled her eyes. "I'll take my chances," she said, and turned the handle with the squeak of rust and disuse. As she did, a sweet, though slightly disjointed melody poured from it, soft tinkling notes filling the air. She let go of the handle, startled, and the music continued for a few more seconds, then stopped. 

"It's a music box," Trevor said helpfully. "We have a few up at home, but they're a little less dilapidated, and they work better. They look different, too." He gently took it from Sypha's limp fingers and turned the handle again, producing the next few bars of the little song it played. 

"I—my mother used to have one of these," Sypha said, appearing transfixed by the tinny music the box coughed out. "She would play it and we'd sit around a fire, and my mother and father would dance." She smiled wistfully, her eyes bright. 

Sensing an almost tangible shift in the atmosphere between them, Trevor stayed quiet, letting her speak. "We would be in the middle of nowhere, and there would just be open fields for miles and miles in every direction—but it would feel like home anyway, with all of us there and together."

She turned away abruptly, hands gripping a shelf with a white-knuckled grip. "But that's all over now," she said, and her voice was tight and constricted. "Those times are long gone."

He thought of the way she had put her hand on his arm, the way she'd told him he was doing the right thing and that she believed in him. She hadn't even known he needed to hear it, and she'd done it entirely selflessly, but she'd done it anyway. And she had no idea how much her words had helped him, because he hadn't told her. 

But now he sensed she needed him the same way he hadn't known he needed her. 

"Sypha," he said, his voice low. The music from the box continued in the background, slightly out-of-tune, but sweet and nostalgic all the same. Her shoulders were set in a tight, tense line, and he could see even from behind her that she was holding back tears; her jaw was clenched, and she was biting her lip.

"I was sixteen years old," she said, and her voice cracked in the middle. "We had stopped, at a small outpost in the north. It was cold, but dry; and that's what must have aided in ruining everything. We had a fight—it was something stupid, and silly, and I barely remember why now. But we fought, my mother and I, and she went into the caravan and she slammed the door."

He heard her exhale shakily, then go on. "My father went in after her, to comfort her, and I was standing outside, and I remember being so angry at her, and I remember just wanting to get away from it all." 

Her voice turned guarded, as if she had begun speaking about something she'd never spoken about before, as if this were uncharted territory for her. "I stormed away, into the forest, but I didn't realize then... I hadn't realized it, but I had been so angry that the leaves under my feet had caught sparks."

Trevor had guessed by now where this was headed, and a sort of anticipatory panic had risen in his throat, knowing how much this must have hurt and tormented her. "If it hadn't been so dry," she whispered, "it wouldn't have happened. I came back hours later, and the caravan was blazing. There was nothing anyone could do."

She let out a small sob, her shoulders shaking. "I tried to get in, but even as I moved forward the whole thing just... collapsed, from the damage the fire had caused to the wood. I screamed and called for help, and my grandfather, he—he came just in time for the whole thing to turn to ashes."

She was crying now; he could see the silvery tracks that the tears made down her cheeks, spattering on the floor at her feet. He knew instinctively that she had never told anyone this before, that he was the first person to hear this from her. The knowledge that she trusted him with it was what gave him the courage to step forward, moving to stand next to her, their shoulders touching. 

The backs of their hands brushed and he allowed their fingers to tangle together, and rather than turning away she grasped his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together so tightly it almost hurt. "It was my fault," she said, swallowing hard. "I killed them."

"I wasn't there," Trevor said. "I don't know exactly what happened. But I do know that whatever happened, you didn't mean for it to." 

She said nothing, looking away. He went on, taking her other hand and turning so that they were facing each other. Just half an hour ago they were laughing together about Adrian and now there were tears on her face, her eyes swimming. "You lost control. It happens sometimes, and I know that sounds stupid, but it's true."

She sniffled, not meeting his eye. The lopsided tune was still playing from the music box, sweet and high and incongruous amidst the tension that hung in the air. "You might think it's your fault," he went on. "You've probably been blaming yourself for the past... what, four years?"

"Five," she corrected tearfully. 

"Five years," he said. "That's a long time to carry the weight of something you couldn't have controlled. You know that you couldn't have controlled it, somewhere you know it wasn't your fault, but you don't want to believe it. You want to believe there was something you could've done to stop it."

"I could have controlled my temper," she said, shaking her head. "I could have controlled this... this _magic_ that just always controls me. I could have done something."

"Maybe," he admitted, "but you can control it now. You are your own master now, and nothing else controls you. Even Aalis can't touch you—thanks to Adrian, anyway."

She let out a small watery laugh, swallowing. "I suppose. But that doesn't bring them back."

"And that shouldn't be your goal." He stepped closer, and she tilted her face up to meet his gaze. "At the end, once you've made peace with what happened, you should think of them with happiness and not guilt."

She was looking at him, merely looking at him, saying nothing. The music was still lilting behind them, faint and sad. Her eyes were large and shimmering and she looked as if she desperately wanted to tell him something, but the words weren't coming out. So instead Trevor spoke for her, nodding at the music box. 

"Dance with me," he said. 

She raised her eyes to his, apparently startled. "What?"

"There's music," he said with a shrug. "And it'll help, and it's fun."

"But... but I don't know how to."

"I do. I'll guide you. Come on." He tugged on her hands and her lips tilted into a smile as he guided them to the middle of the room, placing one of her hands on his shoulder and the other lacing with his. He settled a chaste hand on her waist and gently maneuvered her feet into position. 

"Step right, then left," he said, and she looked down to move as he directed her, stumbling a little as she did. Slowly but surely they fell into a rhythm, moving in pace with the music that was trickling from the box on the table. It was a little rusty-sounding, and some notes were out of tune, and it was probably broken—but then again, weren't they all, just a little?

Sypha was laughing as he spun her around, then brought her close again, and she tucked herself against his chest, taking his hands again. "You're the last person I'd expect to dance so well," she said breathlessly, falling into step beside him again, and he shrugged as modestly as he could, grinning at her. 

"There's a lot of things I can do you wouldn't expect me to know," he said. "Being born into a noble family means you have to know how to dance, play an instrument, arrange tables and all sorts of weird shit."

"Next time we host an extravagant dinner, I'll hire you then," she laughed, and the sound made something in his stomach twist agreeably. Her shoulders had relaxed almost imperceptibly, as if a great weight had lifted from them, one she hadn't even known she'd been carrying. He'd stopped leading the dance sometime in the last few minutes and they'd fallen into an easy, unconventional pace, neither formal nor informal, just something unique to them. 

Sypha was smiling, her tears long since dried, and as he spun her around again and heard her laughter ring out clear as bells ringing, he thought maybe he'd given her what she needed—and he realized that seeing her happy made him happy too. 

She drew close again, and stumbled just a little, falling forward onto his chest. He caught her and she looked up, probably to thank him, but her lips parted and the words never passed them. His arms went around her waist, and her fingers were clutching at his shoulders tightly, their faces inches apart. 

She bit her lip, and then almost decisively her arms looped around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. The movement slotted their bodies together and his breath jammed in his throat, and he was so aware of how warm and soft she felt in his arms, and how large and blue her eyes were. 

They'd stopped dancing, and were standing in the middle of the room, hardly daring to breathe. Faintly somewhere he could hear the music, playing the same two notes over and over again in a broken, disjointed chorus. It seemed as though time had stopped, that one moment stretching out interminably. 

Sypha's gaze dropped from his, then darted back up again, her cheeks flushing. She bit her lip and it seemed impossible to tear his eyes away from the small, involuntary movement, and it made him wonder how it'd feel if _he_ bit her lip—

He looked back at her eyes with difficulty and she swallowed, tilting her face upwards. He leaned down and her hands tightened on his shoulders as she stood on her tiptoes, elevating herself slightly as her eyes slowly fell shut. He tilted his head, his own eyes closing as the distance between them closed, slowly, inch by inch. Her fingers bunched in the fabric at his back as their lips brushed against each other, just barely a touch. He moved forward to finish it, to kiss her properly—

The music stopped abruptly, the box finally sputtering to a stop. Both startled, they drew away from each other, breathing hard. Trevor felt the absence of Sypha's warmth like a physical blow, momentarily winding him. He could still feel the butterfly touch of her lips on his, the feeling of her hands and her breath. 

They were both staring at each other, neither of them knowing what to say. Trevor opened his mouth, but he had no idea what he wanted to say—'I'm sorry'? 'Don't leave'? 'I can't be with you like this, even if I want to'? 

He was saved from finding out which when he heard footsteps echo between the shelves, followed by Adrian, his shirt mended and his coat draped over his arm. He stopped a few feet away, looking between them quizzically. "Is anything wrong?" he asked. "You both look a bit... pale."

"We're fine," Sypha said, looking pointedly away from Trevor and straightening her robes. She surreptitiously wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve when Adrian turned to Trevor, a brow raised. He said nothing, and Trevor couldn't tell whether he could guess what had happened. 

"Anyhow," he said, "now that you can see that your whip works"—he nodded at the Morning Star—"I was thinking that we should start planning to go back into the woods soon."

"Back into the woods?" Trevor was broken from his reverie at the words, frowning. "You mean... going in there to face Aalis?"

"How much longer can we sit here researching?" Adrian waved around, gesturing at the shelves. "We could sit in here another century and still find something new every day."

"You mean we have to start formulating an attack plan," Sypha translated, moving to stand on Adrian's other side. They made an odd trio, Trevor thought, but he knew he'd never have wished it any different. 

"Yes," Adrian said. "We need to move against her. We can resist her mind control to a formidable extent now, so that's no longer a problem."

"And she seems to hate your fire," Trevor added, nodding to Sypha. She nodded back, and he wondered how both of them could act like the last fifteen minutes hadn't happened at all, but he felt almost guilty about it—there was Adrian, and they were a thing now. He felt equally strongly for them both, which did more than alarm him. 

"We should start thinking about how we can stop her once and for all," Adrian said, stepping forward and stooping, picking up the bestiary and setting it on the table. He glanced at the music box, now still and silent. He made no comment, and his expression didn't shift, but his gaze lingered on it a little longer than necessary. 

"So what do you suggest?" Sypha asked practically. "We need to plan this slowly, and deliberately. There can't be any hitches. If we go in for this, it has to end."

"Right," said Trevor. "That means we have to make sure she doesn't somehow get to know about this. You know, get into our heads and stuff." He looked at Adrian. "You're sure that won't happen again?"

Adrian avoided his eye, but nodded. "Pretty sure. Although..." He exhaled. "There's something I didn't tell you last night."

Sypha raised her eyebrows at him, and he bit his lip, looking down. "She probably can get into my head, easier than before." He looked at Trevor, hesitant. "And that's because now your blood flows in my veins."

Trevor looked at him blankly. "What?"

He sighed. "It makes it easier for her to get to me now that if you cut me, I bleed Belmont blood." He held out an arm, and Trevor could see the intricate traceries of blue-green veins beneath his pale skin, full of Trevor's blood. "She said that."

"Shit." He leaned back. "Now what?"

Adrian looked faintly relieved. "Now it's merely a matter of resisting her when she manages to get to me, I suppose."

Sypha glanced at him worriedly, looking unconvinced. "Crossing that bridge when it comes to it," she murmured. "I guess that's all we can do for now. But—Adrian, is there anything else she told you that you didn't tell us the first time?"

He held her gaze a second too long, hesitant almost—then shook his head, enigmatic. "No," he said. Firm, sure, guileless. "No, there was nothing else."

* * *

"Trevor, I need to tell you something," Adrian hissed. 

"Hmm?" He glanced at Adrian where he was silhouetted against the night, cream and shadows pooling around him. Sypha had left already, claiming she had a headache and she wanted to go back to the caravan to sleep. They were standing at the edge of the steps, half in shadow and half in light. 

"There was something else Aalis told me, something I couldn't say in front of Sypha," he said, drawing closer. He looked distant and untouchable like this, with the darkness on his fair hair sliding off its iridescent surface like ink dripping off crystal. 

"What?" He eyed him warily, wondering what she could have said that Sypha couldn't hear. 

"It wasn't a mere coincidence that she could get to me last night," he said. "She told me that she could reach into my mind and weaken me like that because of"—he hesitated for a fraction of a second—"the curse," he said finally. 

Trevor felt his blood turn to ice. "The curse... it's already started? It can't be stopped?"

"The day you first stepped on her grave," Adrian said. He was gazing at Trevor desperately, lips slightly parted and that one maddening curl of gold falling over his forehead. And while once Trevor would think him intangible, inaccessible to him, now he knew things were different. 

He reached out, brushing the curl of hair out of his eyes. "I knew," he said. "I didn't know, but—I knew. I think I felt it all along, but I just didn't want to admit it."

Adrian's eyes were wide, disbelieving almost. "But?"

"But it can't be stopped, can it?" He lowered his hand, shaking his head. "If I'm destined to—to be punished for feeling however I feel about you, then I'm going to do everything I can to kill Aalis before anything can happen. Because I'm not going to give you up, even if it means I'm going to die for it."

Adrian's eyes shone, but Trevor couldn't tell whether it was with tears or not. Before he could look closer to find out, though, he had already surged forward, wrapping his arms around Trevor tightly and holding him as if he would otherwise break. 

Trevor's own arms came around him in an almost unconscious response, and he felt Adrian's hands fist in the back of his shirt, his cheek pressing to Trevor's shoulder. "Thank you," was all he said, and his voice was so soft Trevor barely heard it, though the space between them was negligible. 

He said nothing in reply, only held Adrian all the tighter because of it, feeling the steadiness of him and the silkiness of his hair against Trevor's fingers and the warmth of his breath against his skin. He didn't know how long they stood there like that, half-vampire and vampire hunter entwined with no beginning and no end. 

He closed his eyes and let himself be washed away by his closeness, and breathed Adrian in along with the morning as outside, the first rays of dawn finally bled through the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this OT3, don't @ me.


	16. Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Apples:** _Sin, temptation, the fall of man and the enticement of that which is forbidden._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take that, writer's block. An update in less than a week. *pumps fist*
> 
> Also this chapter has something in it that a lot of you have been waiting for...

**_Sypha_ **

She shut the door of her caravan behind her softly, mindful not to wake anyone as she did. Moving carefully towards the little corner she had claimed for herself when she'd turned twelve (and had dutifully roped off with a curtain when she had), she twitched the curtain aside and sat on her bed, putting her head in her hands. 

She felt oddly as if she was floating, as if an unimaginably heavy weight had lifted from her soul and she hadn't even known until it was gone how burdening it had been. It felt easier even to breathe, and she felt drained and tired, but oddly at peace. She felt hollow, but it wasn't a bad sort of hollowness—it was more the way a bird probably felt, its body light and its bones empty; but that was what gave it the ability to fly. 

She let herself fall back on the worn mattress with a faint creak, breathing deeply. She was still sorting it all out, how she felt—but she couldn't deny that what Trevor had told her had made her think about it in a way she never had before. His words had been few, but those few words had been enough to slip past all the chinks in her armor and strike her heart, painful but necessary. 

She exhaled, closing her eyes as a finger trailed across her lips. She could still feel the way every nerve in her body had fired all at once at the feeling of Trevor's breath mingling with her own, the lightest of light brushes of lips. She felt her cheeks warm and turned her face into the covers, biting her lip to stop the ridiculously happy smile that was threatening to spread across her face. 

It had been so fleeting and so light that it could hardly be called a kiss, but it had still happened. She hadn't been dreaming. She had actually—almost, but that didn't count—kissed Trevor Belmont. She laughed into her fingers, nearly giddy with incredulous joy. She could hardly believe it had happened. 

She had hated him, in the beginning. He had just been so rude, so entitled and used to doing what he wanted. She remembered the way they'd clashed over and over again when they'd first met, the glaring and cold-shouldering and the arguing. But it had caved, mellowed, turning good-natured and something natural almost. And now...

And now she could finally admit it to herself, that she liked him, without feeling like she wanted to kick herself. She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment she'd fallen for him, but she remembered realizing it, watching him carefully, painstakingly lettering everything they knew into the book. 

His eyes had been cast downward, the dusky sweep of his lashes against his pale skin startling in its dichotomy. He'd been biting his lip, and she remembered noticing the way he would pause every few seconds to read what he'd written, nod slightly, then continue. 

He had been totally and utterly absorbed in the simple task, but his concentration would fracture every few minutes, when he'd raise his eyes to hers to ask her something, or the one time he had merely cut his gaze to hers and had smiled a little, just a tilt of his lips, before returning to the task at hand. 

He had looked back down, and it had come to her mind randomly, the way she recalled a bit of poetry or her favorite line from a book she loved. _He fits in my life. Here, this, us—it's comfortable, the easiest thing in the world. I want him in my life._

The same way she thought of Adrian, yet entirely different. The affection she felt for them both was equal, bit expressed itself differently. Logic told her she could never have them both, that she would have to sacrifice her feelings for one if she was to be with the other. But it seemed impossible to her, incomprehensible; it was so deeply rooted into the truth of the universe that it seemed unchangeable—the sun rose in the east, there couldn't be a Wallachian winter without rain, and it was always Trevor, Sypha and Adrian. 

Sypha wasn't stupid, nor blind—she could clearly see the way Adrian and Trevor looked at each other, the way they stood so close to each other that they would invariably touch, the way they would lean close and murmur to each other with their heads bent and their eyes on a level. And while she had searched inside herself for a jealousy she had been sure would be there, she had found only happiness. 

Because she knew that the way Adrian smiled at her, or took her hand as they walked in an unconscious gesture, or would get that adorably besotted look on his face whenever she raved about something she liked, wasn't false. The same way she knew that earlier that night, when Trevor had listened to her and told her to face what she couldn't, and had taken her hands and danced with her and smiled even as she trod on his toes, was just as genuine. 

She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back on the pillows. She knew she ought to tell them how she felt, and that would finally clear the air. She knew neither of them would take the initiative, knowing them—as usual, she'd have to do all the hard work herself. 

She smiled to herself, clutching her pillow tighter to her chest. It felt nice, to think about this and not about Aalis for a change, that she could lie in her bed and blush to herself about two boys she liked. It was blissfully normal, and she was, for the first time in a long, long time, happy. For the first time since her parents had died she had finally found someone—or in this case, two someones—who grounded her, made her want to stay somewhere, made her feel like home. 

She sat up, sliding her legs out of bed as she toed off her sandals, standing as she set the pillow down, knowing that with all these thoughts she would never find sleep. She quietly moved towards the back of the caravan, slipping out the back door. Locating the ladder that led to the roof mainly by familiarity in the darkness, she carefully hauled herself up, seating herself on the roof as she had done so many times before. 

She crossed her legs, leaning back on her hands and closing her eyes, sighing as she felt the cool breeze the night blew onto her, chilling her skin where it blew her sleeves up, feeling it toy with her hair with whimsical fingers and whisper in her ear in a soundless, breathless rush. 

She opened her eyes, gazing up at the stars flung across the sky above her, silver and gold and crystal. She remembered what she had thought to herself all those months ago, when she had first come into the village—how torn she had felt between knowledge and books and wilderness and freedom, how she didn't know which she craved more. 

And now she knew the answer: she wanted them both. Her heart was divided, and she knew though it was, she wouldn't have it any other way—for how could the sky break out in such beautiful hues of green and purple and red without both the sun and the rain? How could Sypha be happy, without both freedom and knowledge, and without both Trevor and Adrian?

The wind rose, rushing through the air, blowing strongly through the night. She lifted her arms to catch it as she often did when she was little, letting it lift her sleeves, making them billow around her like wings. As she did, she felt the bandages wrapped around her arms loosen, but before she could pull them back down the wind unraveled them, making them cascade from her arms like chains unlocking. 

She could only watch, startled, as they unraveled fully, lifting in the air by the wind and fluttering in the air as the wind carried them away, white doves dancing in the air, moving further and further away. She glanced at her arms, and saw that her skin was fully healed now, her skin smooth and unmarked as it had been before Aalis had burned her with her own magic. 

Her skin had healed now, regenerating and becoming stronger. Just as, in a way, she herself had, embracing her weaknesses and using them to make herself stronger, more capable. Every day she grew closer to finally finishing it, facing Aalis and facing everything that put her down. 

Just as she thought it, something bright and silver caught her eye and she glanced up, startled, to see a falling star shoot across the sky in a dazzling streak of silver, painting its blazing trail across the velvet black of the sky. She stilled and watched as another star followed it, then another, then another. 

She remembered what Papa used to tell her, lifting her onto his shoulders and pointing at the sky as a shower similar to this one had tumbled through the heavens above, beautiful blurs of silver in the sky. _Falling stars give you luck, Sypha. If you're lucky enough to see them, they'll listen to your whisper and grant you a wish._

She recoiled, bracing herself for the pain she knew the memory would bring, that hollow pang in her chest that couldn't be filled by any amount of laughter or memory. But it didn't come, and all she felt was a lingering sadness and a wistful pang of love for what he had given her, what he had left for her. 

_At the end, once you've made peace with what happened, you should think of them with happiness and not guilt,_ Trevor had said. 

And now she knew what he had meant. 

She smiled to herself and watched as the stars fell in bursts of gold and silver, and even though she knew it was a force of nature and was merely one among the uncountable mysteries that shrouded the way of the world, she couldn't help but think it was meant for her. 

Her eyes followed the path of a star that skipped through the heavens longer than the others, almost like a phoenix that danced in the sky far above, trailing fire. As it began to fade she heard her father's voice again and felt her mother's arms around her, and though it made her eyes well up, she smiled and finally, after years of nightmares and guilt and tormenting herself, she allowed herself to say goodbye. 

Sypha closed her eyes and wished.

* * *

She jumped as a rumble of thunder rolled through the sky, low and ominous, and promising an impeding storm. It was nearing noon, but it was so dark it looked more like it was five in the evening, the shadows on the ground lengthening, turned even darker by the heavy clouds in the sky.

The wind was strong but not cold, and it whipped at her robes, lifting them as she walked, head down against the gale. People were shouting over the thunder and the roar of the wind, the marketplace in the square seemed to be folding itself up as the owners of the stalls began packing up in anticipation of the storm, bustling around and selling last-minute wares before packing up. 

She was making her way across the square when, at the fountain, she felt something tug at her robe. She looked down, startled, and saw a little girl with large green eyes blinking up at her, her hair cropped short like a boy's. She was holding a leather pouch in one hand and a handful of lilies in the other. 

"Excuse me," she said, politely, in her high little-girl voice. "Aren't you a friend of Alucard's?"

Sypha blinked at her, confused, the wind blowing her hair across her face and cutting pale red lines into her vision. "Alucard? I'm afraid I don't know an Alucard..."

"But I've seen you with him," the girl insisted. "Whenever he's here in the morning, he's here with you. I saw you in the library."

Realization suffused her, and she smiled at the girl, knowing that Adrian wouldn't have given these people his real name. "Oh, yes—how silly of me, I must have forgotten," she laughed. "Yes, I'm a friend of... Alucard's." She must ask him one day what the name signified, she thought. 

The girl smiled toothily, and she held out her hand, the one clutching the lilies. "Could you give him these for me?" she asked, beaming in an absurdly cute manner. "He likes the purple lilies, and they look pretty with his hair."

Sypha took the flowers, kneeling in front of the girl. "I'll remember to mention you when I give them to him," she said, and the girl blushed and giggled, looking at her toes. "And you're right, they do look pretty in his hair. Was it you who braided it the other day?"

She nodded vigorously. 

"It looked lovely." She touched the girl's soft cheek, eliciting another blush. "He thought so too," she said, and the girl's eyes went wide. "Really?"

It seemed Sypha wasn't the only girl taken by Adrian's charms, she thought, grinning inwardly. "Really. I'll tell him how thoughtful of you it is to give him these flowers," she went on, holding the blossoms up. "I'm sure he'll love them."

"Thank you," the girl said, smiling up at Sypha as she stood. She smiled back, ruffling her short hair as she did. "Perhaps your mother will allow you to grow your hair as long as Alucard's one day," she said, and the girl nodded with a faintly wistful look on her face. 

"Now run home before the storm comes," Sypha said, and the girl nodded one last time before scampering off, disappearing in the crowd almost immediately. Sypha felt a bit of warmth curl up in her chest, remembering when she used to be that small, and that full of energy and happiness. 

She could tell why Adrian was so taken with the children, who seemed to hero-worship him. And why wouldn't they? He was everything small children wanted to be—brave, kind, strong and handsome. And he was a warm presence for them, someone they could talk to and admire. She had to admit she found it adorable that he was so revered by the children here, whose favor was untainted by bias or prejudice. 

A crack of lightning split the sky open, breaking her from her thoughts as another earsplitting boom of thunder rolled through the air. She winced, and looked up at the sky just as the rain began to fall.

The people's shouts turned into a melee, everyone crowding at once to leave the square. Sypha found herself trapped in the crowd, unable to move towards her caravan, which was far away enough that she would get soaked through by the time she reached it. 

Making a split-second decision, she hastened towards the church, not wanting to go inside but knowing she had no other option. It was that, or get drenched in the storm without any shelter by the time the crowd cleared. She moved up the steps, pushing the doors open as she stumbled inside, wiping the rainwater from her eyes as the door slammed behind her, loud and echoing. 

_The moment the square clears I'm leaving,_ she told herself as she shivered, moving forward along the aisle, glancing around. It was empty, the pews long and cold and uninviting. The windows were high and arched, stained-glass paintings adorning their surfaces and spilling colored light onto the stone floor. She could see the rain lashing their surfaces outside, relentless. 

She reached the altar, her arms wrapped around herself to preserve some warmth; the church was made of stone, and it was cold inside. 

"Come to confess, have we?"

She jumped at the suddenness of the voice that rang out somewhere to her left, and she turned, clutching herself tighter as she did. She felt her throat close up as she recognized the cold, emotionless voice of the archdeacon, empty and echoing in the church. 

"It's raining," she said shortly as he swept towards the altar on the dais, sneering at her. His black robes swelled voluminously around his lean form, his eyes glinting like steel in the shadows. "I needed shelter. Aren't churches open to everyone?"

"Only the pious," he replied, reaching the altar and looking down at her contemptuously. She knew it must have given him a sense of power to stand above her like that, with the cross rising up behind him like a great snake rearing up before its charmer. 

"What are you doing here?" she asked, already tired. She would rather have braved the rain than speak to the deacon. "There's nobody here, and it isn't Sunday. Services should be over."

"I can be wherever I wish, whenever I wish," he snapped. "Why, little Speaker? Hoping you wouldn't run into me?" He bared his teeth. "Are you frightened of me?"

She scoffed, feeling her fingers close convulsively around the flowers clenched in her fist. She loosened her grip lest they wilt under the ferocity of it, not wanting them to grow limp. "As if I should be afraid of you," she said. "You, who call yourself a deacon and yet find yourself humiliated by a woman who rejected you? You don't frighten me, you disgust me."

His fingers tightened on the alter's stone surface, digging into the edge. "Watch your mouth, girl," he said tightly. 

She sneered, not bothering to hide her hatred for him. "Or what?"

"Perhaps I'll rip out your tongue," he said, moving around the altar and descending the steps, a cruel smirk curling his lips. "You won't be much without it, will you? Your people trade in stories, and you seem to love the sound of your own voice."

"You don't have the spine to touch me," she spat, trying as hard as she could not to move back as he approached. Against her will the memories filled her head, the sound of his voice and the ugly words that had disgusted her, still made her skin crawl. "You're nothing but a coward."

"A coward, am I?" He had reached her, and she wanted nothing more than to turn and run, but she would never let him have the satisfaction. She had never stayed anywhere long enough to make friends—or enemies—but here she had made both. A sure sign she'd been here too long, she thought with wry amusement. 

She tipped her chin up, matching his stare. He was remarkably young, too young to be an archdeacon for sure. But here in a small remote village, who could question anything where nothing mattered? 

"And what exactly is it you think I fear?" he asked softly. 

She shrugged, deliberately appearing indifferent. "God, for one thing, definitely," she said, ticking off her fingers. "Being discovered as a cheating bastard, for another." His eyes turned hard and cold as she went on, feeling a dark satisfaction churn inside her in response to his obvious rage. "Going to hell for lying and sinning—"

"Silence," he hissed. "No impure lie has ever passed my lips—"

"One just did," she said with a roll of her eyes. She could see how much her callousness was getting under his skin, and she pressed the advantage. "And in case you've forgotten, you threatened to lie to the bishop about my people. God knows how many lies you've told to other people before—strike that, actually, even God doesn't know, probably." 

"I said _silence."_ He snarled at her, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "How dare you speak the holy name of God, tarnish it with your impurity?" He looked livid, and she thought that perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to rile him up so much. Then she decided she didn't care. She wasn't afraid of him. She _wasn't._

"I can say what I want," she snarled back. "You talk so much about God and the holy word, but you're nothing but another sinner crawling like fleas for absolution. But it doesn't matter, does it? Because you know you're going to burn in hell for the things you've said and done to get where you are, and nothing can—"

He moved so quickly she barely saw it—one minute she was standing in front of him, fists clenched, and the next she was stumbling back, white-hot pain shooting from her face. She lifted a hand, sucking in a breath as she felt a cut open up on her cheek from where he'd backhanded her hard across the face. It must have been caused by one of his rings, she thought distantly. 

"Insolent little bitch," he hissed, stepping forward. Her body reacted before her mind did and she lurched backwards, gasping as he moved forward, coming towards her. She made to move back another step and tripped over the hem of her robes, falling on her side, watching him tower over her. 

"You think you can say anything you wish to me?" He was standing above her and she struggled to push herself up into a sitting position, feeling the same fear that had trailed cold fingers down her spine when he had offered to defile her for her own freedom. 

"You are in my church," he hissed, "and that means you will obey my rules and do what I ask. I let you go the first time, when you made a fool of me in the market—but this time you will give me the respect I—"

"You don't deserve any of my respect," she snapped, even as the cut on her face stung and throbbed. "How many others?" she demanded, still sprawled on the floor but bursting with rage. "How many other girls have you done this to, humiliate them and rip away their dignity and take it for yourself?" She was breathing hard, her fingers gripping the edge of a pew so tightly it hurt. 

His face was closed, and all he said was, "Enough to know you all need to be put into your places. A woman's place is behind a man's, and she should know it, better seen and not heard. So should you, little girl."

"I don't hide behind any man," she snapped. The cut on her cheek throbbed and she thought suddenly and painfully of Adrian, how he spoke of his mother and how clever she was, how his father adored her all the more for her fiery intellect, and let her burn as brightly as she wished. 

The glint in his eyes turned darker, more malicious. "So there is a man, then," he said softly. "One who has managed to ensnare you. Tell me, did he lie down and allow you to tread over him, or have you always been this insolent?"

"It's no business of yours." She felt her cheeks flush, her hands clenching into fists. 

"The poor man must be exhausted, dealing with you," he said, tilting his head. "Or perhaps not, since I imagine your defiance must make things quite... interesting for the both of you." He grinned and she grit her teeth, her vision turning a lurid scarlet. She stood, feeling her hands shaking. 

"You—how dare you—"

"Touchy about it, are we?" His nauseating smile widened and she wanted to scream, wanted to let herself lose control and burn everything in sight. "I can't decide whether I pity or envy your lover," he went on, and she felt her fingers twitch involuntarily, heat gathering in her palms. She forced it down. 

"Envy?" she echoed, disgust in every syllable. She stepped back, hearing the lashings of the rain on the windows. She would rather drown under the storm than stand here another minute. "You sick ba—"

"Impertinent though you may be, I've always enjoyed breaking the disrespectful ones," he said almost thoughtfully, glancing at her coldly, calculatingly almost, as if he didn't see her as a person at all, merely something to use and discard as he so wished. "I think I'd enjoy putting you in your place." 

His lips twisted and she moved back, a hand coming up automatically—to him it would seem as if it were a defensive gesture, one born from fear. If only she could call her magic to the surface, burn him where he stood...

She opened her mouth to retort when she heard the creak of a door opening, and a moment later a tall, straight-backed figure moved towards the altar. She caught sight of a lined face, eyes that were the color of dark chocolate and a flash of black hair. 

"Bishop," the archdeacon said hurriedly, looking towards him and bowing his head. "I thought you had returned home after the sermon."

"No," said the bishop, and Sypha lowered her hand slowly, looking between the two men. The deacon was glaring at her, but the bishop was hard to read. "I stayed behind to say a few more prayers."

"Of course, bishop," the deacon said, and she felt the same disgust she felt when she saw a cockroach at her feet—knowing all the creature did was scuttle about and spread disease. "The Speaker was just leaving," he added, glowering at Sypha.

She grit her teeth, and was about to cut him down again when the bishop spoke, his voice quiet. "She may stay if she so wishes. The church is a universal haven, and an abode of forgiveness." He turned towards Sypha, gesturing at her. "Do you wish to leave?"

She was startled by his kindness, but didn't show it. Her eyes flicked to the deacon. "I—"

"They cast away God's principles," the deacon snapped. "They hide witches, and they're unnatural. She shouldn't be here, bishop—"

"She is doing you no harm." The bishop drifted towards them, his face open and kind. "You have come here for shelter, have you not?" he asked. "From the storm. Even though your purpose may not be one of prayer, you are welcome and you may sit until the wind calms and the rain slows."

"Thank you," Sypha said, stunned. "But I... I think it'd be wisest if I left—"

"I hope my archdeacon hasn't caused you any trouble?" He looked pointedly at the man in question, who clenched his fists and grit his teeth visibly. Sypha glanced at him, then at the bishop. "Nothing I'm not used to," was all she said. 

"Ah." He moved forward, swathed in his massive robes embossed with crosses on the front. He seemed middle-aged, just tipping into decline, perhaps as old as her father would be if he were still alive. "I see."

He held out a hand rather expectantly, and Sypha blinked, startled. A second later the glowering archdeacon thrust a candelabra into his outstretched hand, one filled with merrily glowing candles that cast out a mellow golden light. He held it up and its warmth washed over her, making her shiver in her damp robes. 

It illuminated the bishop's face, and in it she saw only kindness, something she had seen precious little of over the past few months. "Your people are a wandering folk, are you not? I understand you oft move from place to place, without halting for too long a time."

"We do." She sighed, looking down at her hands. "But... here... it's—" She glanced at the deacon, who was standing to the side with his arms crossed and a triumphant glint in his eye. "It's complicated," she said finally. 

"It has come to my notice," the bishop said mildly, "that you intend to do something about whatever has been killing the people here."

She whipped around, glaring daggers at the archdeacon, who smiled back, all teeth and no real amusement. "I do," she said, her voice carrying and echoing strongly in the room. "I can stop it. It's almost done."

"Should you stop it, we will all owe you a great debt," the bishop said, and the deacon stepped between them immediately after, glaring at Sypha before looking at the bishop with the same bland, unfeeling reverence that looked stretched and false. "Bishop, she lies," he said. "She is not lifting even a finger to help us, nor is she able to. She—"

"The boy who was saved," the bishop said, cutting through the deacon's tirade with a brutal calm that she saw incensed him visibly, "he said she saved him, did he not?"

"Rumor and innuendo, my lord," the deacon snapped. "She enchanted him."

"And what proof do you have?"

"I—none, but—"

"Do you not believe her?" He glanced at Sypha, eyes sparkling, and she couldn't suppress a smile as he did. For the first time since coming to this wretched place she felt validated, wanted, valued. 

The archdeacon looked enraged. "Of course not! She is a Speaker, Bishop, tainted by the immoral norms of her people and the unruly government of her faction. They preach against the word of God."

"Be that as it may, the boy insists that it is this girl who saved his life. If we do not take his word into account, whose may we take?"

The deacon gaped, lost for words. Sypha smiled at him and he clenched his jaw, looking murderous. She knew that now the bishop believed her, he couldn't drive her people out of the village no matter how much he wanted to—the bishop outranked him, and he could do nothing. 

The bishop looked up, smiling benignly at the deacon, then directing his kind look at Sypha. "The rain has stilled for now," he said. "You may take your leave now, should you wish it."

"I'll escort you to the door," the deacon said immediately, and Sypha swallowed a sigh before she said stiffly, "Should you wish, though I don't need to be."

She turned to the bishop. "Thank you for offering shelter, and kindness," she said. "I hope I can repay this debt one day—"

"No debts here," the bishop said. "We do small kindnesses for kindness' sake only. I seek no return from you. Save the people, and that is debt enough repaid."

"I will," she promised, then she turned to leave, the deacon falling into step beside her. The bishop watched them go, still and silent, the light from the candelabra he was holding casting long, eerie shadows on the floor as they walked. 

The moment they were out of earshot the deacon said, "You've crossed one too many lines today, little Speaker girl." his voice was flat, devoid of emotion. 

"You speak as though I should fear you." She allowed the slightest of edges to creep into her voice, a razor blade slicing through the words. 

"Oh, you should." They had reached the doors, and he opened them, allowing her to step outside into the drizzle that hung like mist in the air. He was gazing at her almost hungrily, a dark glint lighting his eyes to a pale, sickly silver. "If you have any sense under those pretty curls, you would be very afraid indeed."

"Perhaps you should realize that sometimes the way to a woman's heart is through her mind and not through her body," Sypha said. "That is not all there is to a woman. We are thinking beings just like men."

"Not in my experience," he said dismissively, and she sighed, knowing that he would never see sense. "Fine then," she said, making to leave. "I won't waste my breath."

"Before you go," the archdeacon called, and she half-turned, raising an expectant eyebrow. "Know now that you have made an enemy of me here today, girl. You'll want to stay out of my way, because if you don't, you do not want to know what will happen."

She laughed, shaking her head and turning back to the road. "I think I'll take my chances," she said nastily, and she walked away. Not turning back, she didn't see the deacon's face split into a cold, knowing smile just before she did, nor did she know exactly how true his words would turn out to be.

* * *

Sypha doubled over with a gasp as pain tore through her body, forcing her to bend almost double to try and get away from it. Even as she did she felt another cramp tear through her lower stomach, making her eyes water and her breath catch in her throat. 

She was crouched in the library, pressed up against a shelf in the far corner. She should have known the cramps would start by nightfall, since her cycle had started in the afternoon. Still she had gone to the Hold, since now they were beginning to discuss finally going into the forest to meet Aalis again. 

Now she was beginning to wish she was back in her caravan, curled up on her bed and sipping mint tea as her grandfather always made it—sweet enough to make her jaw ache and strong enough to make her dizzy. It always helped to stay the pain. 

She picked up a book to distract herself, wincing as she read through it absentmindedly. It said something about revenants, which she knew wouldn't help, but she read it anyway, trying as hard as she cold to focus on the words and not the ache that had now spread to her lower back and hips. 

She sighed, setting the book down and hugging her knees, putting her head down, her forehead pressing to her knees. Sometimes she hated being a woman. 

"Sypha?" 

She looked up with a start just as Adrian turned into the wing of the library she was crouched in, moving towards her with a confused look on his face. She didn't blame him; the instant they had arrived she had immediately vanished without saying a word, and now she was here, crouched against the wall surrounded by books. 

Normally she'd be happy to see Adrian, but at that moment she just wanted to be left alone to nurse the pain. Things were already awkward enough—this would make it infinitely worse. She found herself not wanting to tell him why she was there, even though she knew he'd understand. 

He stopped directly above her, and frowned down at her quizzically. "What on earth are you doing here? We were looking everywhere for you."

Just as he said it Trevor turned the corner, and she curled in on herself even lower. Adrian she could wave away. Trevor _and_ Adrian was doubtful. She huddled tighter in the corner, flattening herself against the shelf behind her.

"You two carry on," she said as Trevor moved to stand next to Adrian, glancing down at her with a confused expression identical to Adrian's. "I think I'll... stay here researching."

"But we have everything we need," said Trevor. "What the hell are you doing here all by yourself?"

"I already asked her that." Adrian elbowed Trevor and he rolled his eyes, rubbing his shoulder. Sypha couldn't help but huff out a laugh, then immediately winced and shut her eyes, waiting for the cramp to pass. Once it did she cracked an eye open, and was met with two pairs of concerned eyes. _Great._

"Are you all right?" Adrian knelt on her right and Trevor knelt on her left, and she felt helpless and oddly hysterical as the hugged herself tighter, wishing she could disappear. "Yes," she said, edging away from them. "I'm perfectly fine, you two can start planning and tell me what you did later."

"What? No," Trevor said, and she sighed frustratedly, letting her head fall back against the shelf behind her with a thunk. "What's wrong?" Adrian asked, making to put a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away, wincing as the movement caused another slow wave of pain to radiate from her stomach.

"I... it's nothing," she said, not looking at either of them. "Just—I mean, it's—you wouldn't..."

They both looked so adorably concerned that she caved finally, sighing and shutting her eyes, burying her face into her arms. "My cycle started today," she muttered, her voice muffled. She felt herself blushing as she raised her head, even though she knew it was perfectly natural and happened to every girl. 

For their part, both Trevor and Adrian looked mortified, their eyes widening. She had to fight a smile as they stuttered and stammered, both turning an adorable shade of pink. She bit her lip as they glanced at each other and blushed even more, then looked away. 

"Sorry," Adrian stammered, blinking at her. "We, er, didn't know, and—"

"We'll just go if you're—I mean, if you—" Trevor blushed. 

"It's perfectly all right," she giggled. "And shouldn't you two be a little more used to this?" She raised a pointed eyebrow at them. "Your mother is a doctor," she said, nodding at Adrian, "and you have _six_ older sisters." She glanced at Trevor. "Surely you have some experience with all this."

"Usually it's just a week of getting things thrown at me and screaming," Trevor said, still blushing. "If you want to go back, we get it, you can—"

"I'm not dying," she huffed. "I've managed in worse situations. If there's any herbs here that'd reduce the pain, though, that would be..." She looked hopefully at Adrian and he blinked, looking stupefied. 

She sighed, nudging him gently. "Adrian."

"Of course!" He leaped up, his cheeks still pink. "I'll just... I'll herb—I mean, I'll find herbs. Stay right here." He hurried off, his footsteps fading moments later. 

"Are you in pain?" Trevor looked concerned, and even though he still looked mortally embarrassed, he was looking at her steadily. "Is there anything you need, or...?"

"Nothing," she said, and for some stupid reason she found herself blushing too. "I'm just a little cold."

A second later she let out a muffled squeak as she felt Trevor put an arm around her shoulders, sitting carefully beside her so that she was pressed up against him, cocooned in his warmth. Invariably her body relaxed, and she practically melted into his embrace, putting her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes. 

"Thank you," she said, biting her lip and trying to stop the blush that threatened to spread across her cheeks. 

He hummed in response, and she felt it vibrate through her whole body where she was pressed against his chest. The pain lessened slightly, surrounded as she was by heat and the comfortably relaxing scent of cinnamon and leather and Trevor. Sometime in the last few days she had grown used to his scent, and her body relaxed involuntarily in his presence, as though deep in her subconscious something inside her told her he was safe and she could trust him. 

There was silence for a few minutes, and just as Sypha began to think that the cramps were at bay, another spread through her body and she hissed slightly at the pain, shutting her eyes. 

"What's wrong?" Trevor's arms loosened and she held him tighter, willing him silently not to let go. "Nothing," she said breathlessly. "Just... cramps."

His arm slipped from her shoulders down to her waist and she squeaked again as he pressed a large, warm hand to her spine, gently rubbing her back as if she were a cat. But against her will she relaxed even further into him, her body going limp and useless. She tried to say something, but all that came out was a contented "Mmmmh".

"Better?" His breath was warm on her ear and suddenly and vividly the memory of last night rose in her head, leaning closer, breathing his breath and feeling the ghost of his lips' touch on her own. She sucked in a breath, turning her face into his shoulder and willing the memory away. 

"Yes," she said instead, looking away. The pain built in her spine and she sighed, shutting her eyes. "Tell me something," she said. "If you talk, it'll distract me."

"Okay." His fingers spread across her back, tapping lightly on her waist as if he were thinking of what to say. Then he laughed a little and said, "It's weird that I've known you for weeks now and I don't know what your favorite color is."

She smiled even though he couldn't see it. "Orange." Then she paused. "Let me guess; yours is red?"

"Nope. Green." He leaned back against the shelf. "Favorite food?"

"My grandfather brought me cheese from Cabrales once, when he came back from Spain," she said, the memory still fresh in her mind, though ever so slightly worn from how many times she had revisited it. "It was the only time I'd tried Cabrales cheese, and it was the best thing I'd ever eaten, and nothing has ever compared."

She looked up. "What about you?"

He merely shrugged. "Anything my mother makes, really. I'm willing to bet she's the best cook in Wallachia." He looked faintly proud, and Sypha laughed. "How sweet. What's your favorite season?"

"Definitely fall. The estate gets covered in leaves, it's like red snow. We used to jump in the piles and piss off the gardeners, every single time." He snorted. "Once I turned twelve we stopped though. Growing up and all that."

"Growing up is a social construct." She yawned, sighing. "I like spring. It doesn't rain, and everything is green. It's cold, but it's also warm."

"What happened here?" She jumped as she felt his soft touch on her cheek, and saw concerned blue eyes blinking out at her. His fingers grazed the cut on her cheek and she looked away, swallowing. "Nothing. I—I fell." Her tone was short, and invited no further questions. 

Trevor appeared to understand, and his fingers fell away from her face as he merely nodded. There was silence for a few more minutes, and then finally Trevor broke it. "There's something I've been wanting to tell you," he sighed. "For weeks now, actually."

She felt alarm bells begin to ring in her mind, something about his tone and his hesitation making her uneasy. She had a feeling she was about to hear something very important. "Oh?" She kept her voice casual, unobtrusive. 

"For the last few weeks," he began, and he was speaking haltingly, as if he were choosing the words as he spoke, "what we read in that book, and what Aalis said... it's been bothering me."

"What do you mean?" She drew away and his arm unwound from her shoulder. He sighed, moving around to face her. "I mean the fact that my family cursed her grave," he said. 

She felt her brows knit together. "I don't think that's—"

"It is," he said, and he was gazing at her hesitantly, but she knew he knew what she was thinking. "I'm sure it is."

"The curse... that you would fall in love with the wrong person and die as repentance?" She stared at him. "But you haven't... I mean, who would..." The question answered itself immediately in her mind before she could even finish asking it. She felt her heart hammer as the pieces fell into place, and she felt as if the world had fallen out from under her feet. 

"Adrian," she said. 

He bit his lip, and when he looked at her she saw guilt—a sure confirmation of what she had just suggested. "I wanted to tell you," he said. "I mean... it would be unfair if you didn't know, but he never said anything, so I never said anything either..."

"Wait," she said, her heartbeat so loud in her ears it was all she could hear. It wasn't as if she hadn't suspected, but she hadn't suspected this far. "You, and... Adrian?"

He nodded hesitantly, and before he could speak again she asked, "How long?"

"The day you rescued that boy from the forest," he said. "I suppose that's when it sort of officially started. Like I said, I wanted to say something, but I never really got a chance, and then so much happened, and—"

He was talking, but she could hardly hear him. The day she had rescued that boy in the woods was the exact same day she and Adrian had kissed for the first time... and that meant he had been with both of them at the same time and neither of them had known about it. He hadn't said a word, and she hadn't suspected a thing. Neither had Trevor. He hadn't told them, and they hadn't known.

Until now. 

"Trevor," she said, and he stopped talking, blinking at her as she stood up, holding out a hand. "Could you excuse me for a second?"

Without waiting for him to reply she hurried away between the shelves, still half-numb with disbelief. How could Adrian run around behind her back with Trevor, and run around behind Trevor's back with her? Did he think they were both stupid, and would never realize it? What had he been thinking?

She found him in the wing of the Hold that was full of glass bottles blown in intricate shapes and herbs and poultices, with exotic-looking plants climbing the rails and lending a heavy, earthy scent to the air. The large bulbous pink blossoms of a flower that sat in a massive green pot snapped at her as she passed by, reaching out snaky green tendrils for her as she did. She slapped it away and it shrunk back, whining softly. 

Adrian turned fluidly at the sound of her footsteps, holding a glass bottle. He smiled at her as she approached, and there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek and petals on his coat from where he had evidently lost a battle with the pink flower. "Sypha," he said. "I've nearly got the proper leaves to help reduce the pain." 

She drew up to him and he went on, oblivious to her anger. "How are you feeling? I hope you're not in too much— _what on earth was that for?"_

She had stepped forward and smacked him upside the head, hard. She glared at him as he held up a hand as if to ward her off, his other hand rubbing his head where she'd hit him. She stepped closer, pointing a finger into his face. "You are in so much trouble," she hissed. 

"What did I do?" He held out his hands beseechingly. "I haven't done—"

"You lied to me. This whole time I thought you were just making eyes at Trevor because you liked him and hadn't told him anything yet, but you've been with him the entire time! _And_ me, at the same time. What is wrong with you?"

His mouth dropped open and he stared at her, apparently at a loss for words. The glass bottle in his fingers had tilted, and green liquid was dripping steadily onto the floor at his feet. He didn't appear to notice, however. 

"How... how did you find out?" he asked finally. 

_At least he's not denying it._ "Trevor just told me. He said the curse is real, and that it's about you and him."

He swore softly, running a hand through his hair, the way he always did when he was frustrated or vexed. "Sypha, I wanted to tell you, but I—"

"Why did you lie?" She shook her head. "You should have told us."

"I didn't want to—both of you, you were—I didn't want to lose either of you." He looked away, blushing and caught, helpless almost. "I was going to tell you, but then that day in the library you kissed me and I—I realized that I wanted you just as much as I wanted him. I still do."

"That doesn't mean you can go around behind our backs with each other." A small voice inside her mind whispered, _Hypocrite. You would have kissed Trevor yesterday, and you wouldn't have cared._ She shoved it away. 

"I know." He looked down. "I'm sorry. I should have said something, but I couldn't. And now the curse, it—" He swallowed hard. "It's because of the curse that she could get into my head the other day, and it's been aided now by Trevor's blood." He sighed. "Her lover, he was a dhampir like I am. I suppose that's why she shows such restraint with me."

"You never mentioned that," said Trevor's voice, and they both turned to see him leaning against the shelf behind them, arms folded and eyes glinting unreadably. He unhitched himself from the shelf, moving towards them with a brow raised. 

"But then again, I guess there's a lot you haven't mentioned lately," he went on. "Isn't there?"

Adrian shut his eyes for a moment, cornered. He exhaled, then opened his eyes again. "How long have you been listening?" His voice was constricted, tight. She felt a little bad for interrogating him like this, but it was hardly their fault they had both been cheated on with each other—at the same time. 

"Long enough." Trevor tilted his head back, regarding Adrian with that same enigmatic spark in his eyes. "So that's why you didn't want me to say anything," he said. "Because of Sypha."

Adrian said nothing. 

"Well," Trevor said, "is there anything else we should know that you've kept to yourself?" Finally there was a hint of feeling in his voice—a sliver of irony. 

Adrian sensed it, his jaw tightening as he shook his head. "Nothing. But I... I don't want this to—I understand if..." He put a hand to his eyes, sighing, then lifted his head. "What will this mean?" he asked. "What will you do?"

Trevor and Sypha exchanged a look. She knew what she wanted. She would tell Adrian that she understood, and that she felt equally for Trevor and him the same way he felt equally for her and Trevor; Trevor would say the same; then they would all unanimously agree to a relationship as three people instead of just two. 

But while the curse hung over them, a black shroud over what she wanted so badly, she knew that happiness would elude them. She saw the same yearning in Trevor's gaze when he looked at her, and the same resolution that came with giving up what you wanted to protect the person you loved. 

"We can't," he said. 

Adrian looked away. 

"I want to," Trevor went on. "God knows I want to—but as long as Aalis knows what you are to me, she can get to you, and I'd rather keep it professional than lose you entirely. Both of you."

Adrian sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean for it to be like this."

"We know," Sypha said softly. "And it isn't your fault. And this just gives us more reason to want to kill her. We need to go into the forest soon, and we need to end this. Otherwise nothing will ever come of this—us."

Adrian took a deep breath, then nodded, his eyes hard. "Then let's put an end to this," he said. "We go into the woods in three days. Until then..." She saw the graceful line of his throat move as he swallowed, and she felt a pang of longing suddenly, so intense that she felt dizzy. 

"Until then," said Adrian, "we wait. And we plan, and we get stronger." His eyes darkened. "And then we'll end this once and for all."

She said nothing, and the distance between all three of them felt like leagues and leagues, as if oceans separated them and not mere feet. But they kept their silence as far above them, the deep ring of the golden clock chimed the hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last scene was supposed to be funny, but I never could write crack scenes. It all turns into angst at the end. Oh well.


	17. Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Clouds:** _Clear thinking, emotional purity, mystery and dreams, secrets of the soul._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsty pining 100.

**_Adrian_ **

The scratch of charcoal on parchment was oddly calming, filling the emptiness of the air in his room as he sketched, sprawled on his bed. The sky outside was bloodred, the dark light of dawn spilling in through the open windows. 

There were sheets of paper spread all around him, crackling under his elbows and knees when he shifted. There were heaps of them, some scattered on the floor from where they had slid off the bed. They were all covered in sketches, every single one of them of Trevor and Sypha. 

The images were spilling from his fingertips like blood; just the two of them, over and over and over again. No matter how many times he set pencil to paper, all he could see behind his eyes was them, their faces and their hands and their lips. His hands shook as he lowered the pencil for what felt like the hundredth time. 

This time it was their hands, all three of their hands, clasped tightly together, easily distinguishable from one another—Trevor's scarred and broad, Sypha's slender and delicate, and Adrian's long and fine-boned. He swallowed down the ache that it brought with it, casting it aside. It sifted down onto the bed, on top of a dozen other sheets. 

He put his head in his hands, uncaring that charcoal was probably smearing onto his face as he did. He knew that when Trevor and Sypha found out about what was going on, they would end it. That was why he didn't want them to know. Now he had lost them both.

Until they killed Aalis, at least. But God knew how long that would take, and moreover, should the curse come into effect before they could kill her and something happened to Trevor—?

He wrenched himself away from the thoughts, snatching another blank sheet to channel all the emotions churning inside him, bind them down and give them form. He remembered what his mother had said to him when he had shown her one of his first sketches—her and his father, a rough little doodle he had done in the library. 

She had looked at it, and she had said, _You draw with your heart, not your hands._

He hadn't known what she meant, and had looked at that sketch a thousand times afterward to see if he could discern what she had seen in his own work that he couldn't. It was a fairly simple drawing, merely his father sitting in his chair with his mother sitting on the floor at his feet, leaning against his legs. They had been looking at each other and smiling, his father's eyes soft and tender. 

But now he knew what she had meant when she said what she had said. There was always a weight behind the pages, a lingering echo of some forgotten feeling that dwelt in every curve and every line his fingers guided. He drew to remember, not to forget, and his mother had seen that long before he did. 

He brought the pencil down in a long, dramatic arc and it slowly came together—Trevor, standing alone in the woods with the Morning Star wrapped around his wrists and ankles, binding him as if with shackles. There was a blindfold across his eyes, and his own sword was driven into his heart, blood spilling from where the bade stuck out of his chest. Aalis was holding the whip's handle, and she was turned away from him, tears running down her rotting face. 

He tasted bitterness and he swallowed it, his shaking fingers freeing the sheet. The charcoal in his other hand fell, rolling down the side of the bed and hitting the ground with a soft clatter. 

He stood, surveying the state of the room—papers everywhere, covering the bed and the floor, his coat lying discarded by the hearth, his boots stuffed onto the windowsill and his sword lying carelessly on his desk. He heard a faint whisper in his mind, a familiar voice that slithered into the recesses of his conscious like a serpent slipping into an anthill, killing the insects and claiming their hard-earned abode for its own. 

He shook his head to dislodge it, but it persisted, and just as his eyes widened and he recognized the presence, he stilled, not moving lest he break his concentration. He heard laughter in his mind, a high, sweet but slightly mad croon. 

She was telling him something, her presence in his mind like mist curling between the cracks of a cave. His eyes fell onto the sheets of paper, and he bit his lip. 

Ten minutes later he stood in the middle of the room, looking all around him. The walls were now covered in papers, the sketches glaring out at him like the piercing eyes of blaming strangers. Every inch of the wall was papered, so many covering it that he couldn't even see the wallpaper behind it. He hadn't even realized until he stuck them there how many he had drawn. 

He moved towards the one directly in front of him, still hearing her laughter in his head, unable to do anything against her. It was distant, and he could probably banish her from his mind if he wished. But he knew, somewhere deep in the crevices of his thoughts that she would not hurt him. 

_Love is weakness,_ she whispered, and she guided his body, allowing him to kneel and fumble for the pencil he had dropped on the floor. _Cast it away before it can claim you for its own._

____

He stepped towards the drawing before him. He could see Sypha's and Trevor's eyes gazing out at him from the paper, every detail rendered vividly. But how could it not be, if Adrian saw those eyes in his head every night? 

_Everything fades,_ Aalis breathed. _Nothing lasts forever._

His shaking hand brought the pencil upwards, the point resting on the sheet just above where he had drawn Trevor's eyes with such agonizing detail. He swallowed hard, his breath choking off in his throat. 

_Never again,_ she said. _Never again._

A raw, pained sound forced itself from between his lips as he brought the pencil down, slicing cleanly through Trevor's eye as somewhere far away, he heard a soft sound that almost sounded like a sigh. He fell to his knees in front of the wall, the pencil rolling out of his numb fingers.

He felt her presence in his mind vanish as he looked up at the drawing, where now, Trevor's eyes gazed bitterly back at him, the slash Adrian had drawn slicing downwards directly through his left eye like a scar.

* * *

His father's study was dark and silent, the hearth dead and cold. Even though he didn't feel the cold as acutely as humans did, he shivered as he slipped in through the open door, leaving it open a crack behind him. 

The shadows that the moon cast on the floor were long and spindly, cold and pale. He moved soundlessly, over the polished wooden floor and towards the towering bookshelves that stood against the far wall. He held his breath as he moved, swallowing as he reached the shelf. 

Tilting his head to read the titles, he allowed a finger to trail along the books' thick spines, embossed in gold and wrapped—in some cases—preserved human skin, which he decided not to think too much about. His eyes fell on the book he needed (wrapped in pale leather that made him gag as he reached out) and he slid it from the shelf, bracing a leg on the shelf below and opening the book on his knee. 

He frowned confusedly as he read. _Why on earth would Carmilla want this?_ he thought. He flipped through it, feeling his brows drawing together as he read through page after page of intricate drawings, entries from bygone eras, all in his father's long, elegant handwriting. 

His fingers brushed across the dark red ink, flaking off in places. He let his fingertips trace across it again, and realized that it wasn't ink at all—the words had been written in blood. He lifted his hand abruptly, hovering it over the paper. Sometimes it was difficult to believe his father had once been a figure that inspired such terror in the hearts of men, a ruthless, pitiless creature whose path trailed blood and death. 

He only ever remembered his father as _his father_ , a warm if sometimes stiff figure whom he loved and who loved him, who had taught him but had also played with him, who, along with his mother, were the only people he had ever looked up to. He couldn't imagine the Dracula that he knew writing this, but people could change, he supposed, in time. Which his father had endless reserves of. 

His eyes fell on a complicated equation crammed into one of the margins, filled with alchemical symbols and scratched out lines. It went on for the whole of the page, and he flipped it, wanting to know what answer his father had arrived at. But upon closer inspection, he realized that the same equation went on for page after page, and he gaped as he turned them—three, seven, ten, fifteen—and then finally, after the seventeenth page of relentless solving, the equation ended. 

It terminated in a single figure: zero. 

He flipped the pages, gazing down at the calculations, shaking his head and trying to make out what his father had been trying to solve. He could discern nothing from the tight knot of calculations and numbers and symbols, and squinted, peering down into the paper. 

_Move on,_ he thought. _There's nothing to be seen here that you can understand._ But still he gazed down at the massive equation; something in him was telling him that this was the reason Carmilla wanted this one particular book. But why? Could she identify what it found? 

He bit his lip, so hard he nearly tasted blood. He knew what he ought to do, which—what Carmilla expected of him, at least—was copy it down, maybe write down the first and last few bars of it and give it to her. She had, after all, asked him to go to his father's study, look into his books. Not just any books, but his journals, his travel diaries and his personal notes on the ways of the world.

He had agreed, albeit cautiously—one never knew, with Carmilla. He didn't know what she wanted with them, and in turn he had withheld from her what he did in his long hours in the forest, nor did he tell her anything about Trevor and Sypha. He was yet to ask her for anything in return, but sometimes he wondered what possibly a vampire queen could give him. 

He ran a finger over the calculations again, exhaling. Striding swiftly to the desk, he placed the book on its surface and fumbled for a quill, tearing out a piece of parchment and scribbling down the first lines of the equation, the formulas used to solve it, and then the answer beside it. It'd take him a few days to solve it, but he knew it was manageable. 

He stuffed the piece of parchment in his pocket, then flipped through the book again, his heart hammering in his chest as he read through plan after plan, gruesome schemes to kill millions, strange otherworldly contraptions that would bring the world to its knees. He felt his breath catch as he jammed the book back into its place on the shelf, drawing another one out. 

It was even larger than the previous one, bound in red leather with the title embossed in silver on the spine and stamped out on the front. A deep red silk bookmark was tucked into the middle, and he dug his fingernails into the grooves of the pages, opening it where the bookmark lay like the tongue of a serpent, forked and glistening between the sheets.

His eyes skimmed over the pages and he felt himself relax, a wave of nostalgia cresting over him as he realized it was his father's observations of him as a child, since Adrian had been the first dhampir Dracula had ever encountered. He flipped to the front, feeling a little smile tug at his lips at the first few entries, where Dracula expressed his utter inability to control baby Adrian chewing on everything he could reach, or where he first learned he could defy gravity, and had floated into unreachable parts of the castle.

He laughed softly to himself as he read, wishing with a sudden pang that he hadn't grown up so quickly, that he could have remained a child a little longer. That he had looked down at himself one day and he had the body of an adult but the mind of a teenager, and by the time his mental age matched his appearance, his body had stopped aging. 

He remembered the first few times he had gone to towns and cities alone, fourteen years old but in the body of a twenty-one year old man, how people everywhere—mostly young women and a few men—had gazed at him longer than he'd liked, how their eyes had slid down his body as if he were some sort of prize on display. He had blushed and looked away, and had kept his eyes down on the road the rest of the day. 

And then when he'd been sixteen and he and his mother had gone to the village festival together, where both of them had been staying for a few days. His mother had left early but he stayed well into evening and into night, in the brightness of the celebrations where nobody asked about his eyes or flinched away from his teeth. 

He had been curious. He was young, even if he didn't look it. That one day he hadn't minded the people's looks in his direction, the suggestive smiles and the questioning quirk of brows. There had been many drinks that night, the lights blurring around him and coalescing into one wonderfully exhilarating smear of memories. 

He still remembered the girl's face, her large, light brown eyes fringed by thick black lashes longer than spider's legs. She had been a Romani girl, with brown skin and wavy dark hair and full cupid's bow lips. It had been dark in the barn, but he had been able to see perfectly, the curve of her strong thighs underneath him and the flushed heat of her skin. 

There had been others, after her, but few others. The boy from Targoviste, the cathedral master-builder's apprentice, the one with the red hair. The vampire envoy from Norway's son—admittedly a few hundred years older than he had been, but he had been in the castle for a few weeks, and again, Adrian had been curious; he had possessed the unearthly beauty and strength of a vampire, which had intrigued him. Then the young widow from the small village up north, where he and his mother had gone to help during an epidemic that had swept through the area. 

He was no stranger to the pleasure discovered between bodies, the desire that flared so brightly but so briefly, like candle-flame. But love, on the other hand... love was something he had only just begun to discover. Something that was a thousand times headier than any amount of pleasure a body without a heart could yield. 

He shut the book with a snap, sighing and placing it back on the shelf. He knelt by the shelf, slowly pulling out a slender black volume without a title. He had no idea what Carmilla wanted with these, but whatever it was, it couldn't be good. 

Just as he opened the book he heard a creak. 

He froze, his head snapping up as his heart thudded in his chest, his senses reaching out at once—his ears straining, his vision sharpening to see in the darkness, his skin prickling to feel any shifts in the currents of air that wafted in from the slender crack in the door. 

He heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching the door, felt the air in the room shift. 

He stuffed the book back into the shelf, realizing a second too late that he had put it in the wrong place. Deciding it wasn't worth correcting, he lunged for the door, slipping through without closing it fully. He moved down the corridor so quickly all he could see of his reflection in the paintings hanging on the walls was a blur of black and gold. 

Ducking into a doorway just as his father turned into the corridor, he flattened himself against the door, forcing his pulse to slow, his breathing to even lest he be heard. He heard a faint creak as the door was opened fully, then a pause. 

"Who goes there?" His father's voice was soft, but it carried nevertheless in the stillness of the night. Adrian froze, pressing himself even further against the door and holding his breath. His heart felt like it was slamming its way right between his ribs. He couldn't be caught. He wasn't even allowed in his father's study by day, much less in the dead of night.

He heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching, so softly that if he didn't have oversensitive hearing, it would have been soundless. He squeezed his eyes shut, silently willing his father to go the other way. 

The footsteps paused. 

Adrian held his breath, waited three seconds; then six; then ten...

He heard a sigh, then heard his father move back towards his study. He heard the click of the door shutting a moment later. He let out the breath he'd been holding, sagging back against the wall. That had been close. Too close. If he tried this again, he would definitely be caught, and punished. No matter how old he was, his father's rules were to be obeyed. 

He stayed there, hidden in the shadows pooling between the doorways, silent and still, for a few minutes. He could see light shining from beneath the study door and wondered what his father was doing in his study at this ungodly hour that required light and secrecy. 

Perhaps it was a coincidence that Carmilla wanted to know about his father's plans at the same time he'd begun getting up when nobody could see and disappearing into his study with the door firmly shut. Or perhaps Carmilla knew something, something important, and she had set this all up so that he could find out what exactly it was, and then tell her. 

Was Adrian playing spy against his own father? 

He swallowed, realizing that if he was, then he would be walking directly into Carmilla's trap. But there was a way he could find out what was happening, _and_ make sure Carmilla couldn't do anything about it. 

The plan slowly came together in his mind, a razor blade—if he lost his footing on either side, he'd bleed. He exhaled, his fingers straying into his pocket. He shut his eyes, resolving to do what he had to as he felt the piece of parchment he'd stuffed there brush against his hand, heavier than it should have been.

* * *

He swore and tore what felt like the hundredth piece of parchment from the book he was writing in, crumpling it and tossing it behind him. Already there was a growing pile of crumpled sheets on the floor, all covered in numbers and symbols and notes.

He was about three-fourths through the equation, and even solving backwards didn't seem to be helping. He gazed down at the sheet, chewing on the end of his pencil as he looked down at the knot of near-illegible numbers he had scrawled on the paper. He hesitantly solved another few bars, scratching the numbers out when he realized he'd made a mistake. 

The sun was setting, and his legs and back ached—he'd been sitting in his chair all day, relentlessly solving the equation. He'd skipped breakfast and lunch, ignoring his mother's questions and telling her he was working. He didn't dare go back to his father's study to check the answer, though he found himself wishing he could, more than once. 

He'd discovered that solving the equation was slowly allowing him to come closer to what it was about, what the answer meant. It was definitely something to do with a massive, not-very strategic elimination of something—something large. That explained the zero at the end, but it eluded him. 

He quickly polished off the last few lines of it, looking hopefully down at his answer. 43.86999. He'd never seen a number so far from zero in his life. 

He put his head in his hands, sighing a string of curses into his fingers under his breath. It helped a little, alleviated a bit of the frustration clawing up his spine, to mutter unprintable insults at the inanimate sheet of paper that could say or do nothing in retaliation. He tore out the sheet, crumpling it up and throwing it heedlessly behind him, with a mumbled "Fuck you" in its general direction as he did for good measure. 

He started solving again, and had just gotten into a flow that felt right when a sudden knock sounded at the door, making him jump violently. The end of the pencil skidded across the sheet, leaving a long, jagged black line across it as it did. "Adrian?" his mother's voice called. "Are you in there?"

"Coming," he called, and quickly dumped books all over the sheets covering the desk, leaping up and moving across the room to the door. The sketches of Trevor and Sypha were still hanging everywhere, stuck to every inch of the walls and some even attached to the cupboard and dresser. He pulled the door open just a crack, knowing his mother couldn't see them. 

"Mother, I'm working," he said, maneuvering himself between her and the door so that he effectively covered what little of his room was visible. 

"I know," she said, stepping back to allow him to see the tray of tea she was holding, its strong, sweet scent wafting towards him. He was frazzled, overworked—and the sight of hot tea and the promise of temporary relief was almost enough to make him crack. He weakened, but held firm, biting his lip. "I shouldn't," he said. "I'm almost..."

"Almost what? What are you doing in there?" She attempted to peek over his shoulder into his room, but he shifted to block her, feeling his heart hammering. "It's nothing," he said, trying for an innocuous tone. "Just... something."

She raised a brow at him, then nodded at the tray. "I made crumpets," she said, a familiar smile tugging at her lips. "Your favorite."

He weakened even further. "I... all right, you've won this round." He slid between the door, making sure he shut it before she could peek inside. "Just a minute," he said. "Then I have to go back—"

"All right, all right." She laughed, linking her arm with his and guiding him down the hallway. "What is it that you do all day in your room by yourself? You should go out, meet people, greet life rather than wait for it to knock on your door for you." She looked at him sideways. "What's become of that mystery boy of yours?"

He coughed. "Er—I mean, it's... I'd rather not—it's just... complicated," he finished finally. 

"I see." He could discern that she did see, far more than he wanted her to. She was silent, clearly waiting for him to go on. He sighed, choosing his next words very, very carefully. "Mother, is... is it wrong, or unnatural, if a person can love two different people equally, at the same time? Is there anything wrong about it?"

Her expression gave nothing away. "Most people are extraordinarily lucky to find one true love in their lifetime," she said finally, after a lengthy pause. "If a person is lucky enough to find two, then I daresay they have done much good in their life to warrant it."

He looked away. "And if you aren't allowed to be with them? If they get... hurt, because of that love? What then?"

"Adrian," she said. "Why are you asking these questions? What's wrong?"

He looked at her, her steady baby-blue eyes and the intensely familiar curve of her worried frown, the honey-colored curls that framed her face, the face he'd grown up seeing and loved more than any other. She was his mother. He could tell her anything, and she would not think ill of him for it. 

"You can tell me," she said softly, then turned into the doorway of her lab, guiding him through it and then shutting the door behind her. She sat on the windowsill that Adrian usually inhabited, placing the tray on the mattress. He sat across from her, and dutifully took the cup of tea she handed him. 

He took a sip, then sighed. "I've been going to the village, every night," he said. "After you and father go to sleep, I leave the castle and I go."

She said nothing, merely sipping her tea. He went on, knowing that if he was stopped, he wouldn't be able to pluck up the courage to start again. "There's been something killing the people, something that rips the hearts from young men and sending their bodies back. I wanted to help them."

He looked out the window, the endless rolling expanse of the forest spread out below. "It turned out there was already someone onto the case. We teamed up, deciding to find out what was doing the killing and stop it once and for all."

"This would be your mystery boy." She raised a brow. "What's his name?"

He bit his lip, hesitated, then blurted, "Trevor Belmont."

She stared at him. "Trevor Belmont? Marie and Gabriel's son? The youngest son of the noble house... who stopped hunting centuries ago? _That_ Trevor Belmont?"

"The same." He knew it wasn't his place to tell Trevor's secrets, but he desperately needed his mother's help. And if this was the only way to do it, then so be it. 

"You've been stepping out with Trevor Belmont?" She was gaping at him, the teacup in her hand threatening to tip and spill tea everywhere. "I... I can't... it's a little hard to believe," she finished, blinking. "Do his parents know?"

"No," he sighed. 

"I see." She blinked again, then hastily took a sip of tea as if to mask her surprise. "And this would be because their family is banned from hunting, yes?"

"Yes." He set his half-empty teacup down. "So we started hunting this thing, and it led us all over the place, but we didn't really find anything out—until a tribe of Speakers arrived in the village." He took another gulp of tea. "And there was... there was this girl."

His mother appeared to be fighting a smile, and he plowed on. "She and Trevor, they couldn't stand each other. I was forced to work with them both, separately, to get it done. And as I did... they both... both of them were—" He shut his eyes, sighing with frustration and letting his head fall onto the window with a thunk. 

"I suppose it's good that you can't explain it," his mother murmured, squeezing his arm. "That tells me they both mean that much more to you." Her voice was soft, understanding. "What happened next?"

"The creature that we had set out to kill," he said, lifting his head, feeling the familiar vice of knowing what the curse would do tighten around his throat. "She... she had been a Belmont when she was alive. She fell in love with a... with someone she wasn't supposed to, and her family murdered her for it, burying her alive in the forest."

She said nothing, but her eyes darkened. He swirled the last of his tea in its cup, taking another small sip. "The magic in the forest, it changed her. It transformed her into a monster, an iele—faerie variants that seduce young men, murder them, send their bodies home. She wants revenge, for what her family did to her, and she's not going to move on until she has it."

He set his teacup down; it tasted like ash in his mouth all of a sudden. "She said she's going to kill his whole family. And her family, before she died, they cursed her grave, saying that whoever walked there would meet the same fate as her—fall in love with the wrong person and pay the price."

"Oh," his mother said softly. "So that's what you meant when you said..."

He looked away, feeling that all-too familiar choking feeling that he had now realized was guilt tighten around his throat. He swallowed, his fingers curling into tight fists. His nails cut into his palms, leaving red crescents in his skin. "What if we can't kill her? What if something happens, and I can't do anything about it?"

"You think your... you think Trevor will die for your love," she said softly, setting her own cup down and scooting closer to him. "You think this is your fault."

He looked down at his tightly interlocked fingers, as if they would form a cage that would lock everything away, all the pain and guilt and longing. "Isn't it?"

"Is it your fault that you love him?" she asked, and he flinched at the words, cringing away from them. "I—I don't—I haven't said that," he said. "Not... not yet."

She smiled a little, sadly. "You need to say it someday."

"Not today." He swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. 

She sighed. "And what about the Speaker girl? Can't you and her..."

He choked on what could have been a laugh if it hadn't been so bitter. "I ruined it. I didn't tell either of them about my relationship with the other, and they found out, yesterday. They ended it, and I—I deserved it."

"And both of them...?"

He gazed out at the endless sky, a deep, fathomless azure that was untouched by clouds, the sun a blinding golden disk whose rays slanted downward and lit everything to liquid brightness. "They weren't together the way I was with them, but they were... getting there." He sighed. "If I'd just told them before, this would all be easier."

"You were afraid," she said. "You didn't want to lose what you had with them, and I can understand that. I think both of them understand that too. They ended it because they had to, because of what could happen with the... the curse. But if that threat wasn't hanging over you, then things would be different."

"I just... I can't stand being so far apart even if we're standing so close." He picked up his teacup again, finishing the now-cold tea inside. "Unless we can do something to end the curse, we can't do anything about it. The closer we get, the stronger the curse becomes. I can't let anything happen to Trevor."

She merely nodded, appearing lost in thought. "You know," she said after a while, her tone thoughtful and matter-of-fact, "ever since you were sixteen or seventeen I've been waiting for you to find someone, someone who could make you happy and someone who could ground you the way your father grounds me. Someone who could make you want a home with them and... just want _them_ , to wake up next to them and make dinner with them and be comfortable in silence with them."

She glanced at him sideways, her eyes bright but sad. "And you haven't found one person, you've found two." She reached out, placing a soft, tender hand on his cheek. "You are so lucky to have found them," she said. "And I want you to be happy."

He shut his eyes, stilling at her comforting touch, marveling at how one simple gesture like that could bring him such solace. "Is this your version of giving us your blessing?" he asked, his voice muffled. 

She laughed, leaning forward to put her head on his shoulder. "Maybe. Now all you have to worry about is your father."

He winced, sighing and leaning into his mother, extraordinarily grateful that she had done this for him, had taken some of the burden for him, if just a little bit. "I don't even want to think about how he would react to me being with a Belmont... _and_ a Speaker."

"Perhaps that is a conversation we can save for another time," she said, and he smiled even though she couldn't see, relaxing into his mother's embrace. 

"Another time," he agreed, and closed his eyes.

* * *

He pulled his coat collar up, head down against the wind as he walked through the forest, making sure any wandering travelers who saw him couldn't see his face. He was recognizable here, what with the village so close by, and the castle behind him. He passed nobody, however, what with night just having fallen. 

He rehearsed what he was going to say in his mind, going over the practiced words in his head over and over again. He wasn't exactly nervous, but something somewhere inside him was telling him that this was a bad idea. He wasn't exactly the best liar. _Even though you lied for weeks to Trevor and Sypha...?_

He shoved the thought away, clenching his jaw against it. His hand strayed in to the inside pocket of his coat, lingering on the sheets of paper he had stuffed there. There were twenty in all, bound together with twine, all covered in his writing, numbers and calculations. After hours of solving, he'd finally gotten the answer correct—and he'd been so happy when he had that he'd upset the ink pot, which had nearly fallen on his calculations. 

He snatched his hand from his pocket, pulling the edges of his coat tighter over his chest as he walked, making sure the sheets weren't visible. He now had a vague idea of what the equation helped solve, and it didn't exactly comfort him, if his hunch turned out to be correct. 

He reached the clearing just as the moon touched the tops of the trees, outlining their leaves with liquid silver. It stained the clouds surrounding it with a murky light, one that was more gray than white. It spilled onto the ground, lighting the clearing just enough to keep most of it in shadow. 

Just as he walked into the middle Carmilla emerged from the trees opposite, meeting him in the center of the clearing. They both stopped in front of each other, exactly a foot apart. 

She raised a perfect eyebrow at him, expectantly. "Well?"

He folded his arms across his chest, wiping his face blank. "I did as you asked. I went into his study, looked through the books you told me about."

She studied him shrewdly, her eyes like ice under the moonlight. "And?"

He looked back at her levelly. "I found nothing of import. Just plans, inventions, one that'll never come to fruition. I didn't see anything that would interest you."

She took a step closer, and he forced his heart rate to slow, tilting his head to look out at her through half-lidded eyes, knowing he looked like the picture of boredom, disinterest, uncaring indifference. "Nothing at all?" she asked, and he shook his head. She narrowed her eyes. "Not even any... I don't know, estimations? Computations? Anything like that?"

His heart skipped a beat and he kept his face entirely still. "Estimations? I just told you all I saw in there were plans, inventions, that sort of thing."

She cocked her head to the side, her sheets of silver hair cascading over one shoulder, bright against the black of her dress. "Do you know what I think?" she asked softly. "I think you're lying, Alucard. I think you did find something in there, and you're too afraid to give it to me."

He narrowed his eyes. "I'm not lying."

"No?" She held out a hand, and a soldier marched out of the trees, eyes glinting red under the light, and handed Carmilla a sheet of paper. He gave a short bow and then retreated, and Adrian's eyes lingered on where he vanished into the trees. How many more soldiers had she stashed there? 

She held up the sheet, examining it, then held it up, her face closed but her eyes glittering. His breath caught when he saw what was on the paper—one of his sketches, one of Trevor and Sypha he had done the previous day, one of both of them laughing, a rare moment he'd remembered in the Hold—watching them write in the bestiary and joking together. 

One that had been hanging in his room just before he had left to meet Carmilla. 

"Such talent," she mused, turning it back towards her. "It's nearly a perfect likeness." She raised her eyes to him again, and now her eyes were devoid of humor. "It would be a shame if anything were to wipe away these pretty smiles."

"You can't—you—" His hands clenched into tight fists, anger and hatred and humiliation tangling in his chest, cutting off his breath. "You went through my things," he hissed. "You can't do that."

"In my defense, finding this didn't take much going through," she said, dangling the drawing between her fingers. "Seeing as you've all but covered every available surface with these. I must say, I didn't know you could draw so well. You must adore your two pets more than I gave you credit for."

"I told you not to touch them," he snarled. 

"And I haven't." She blinked out at him, enigmatic, maddeningly so. "But you do not want to know what I can do to them if you don't give me what I want."

He grit his teeth. "And what do I get in return?"

She shrugged. "I won't so much as glance at your little pets, nor will I breathe a word of it to anyone. Besides that, is there anything else you'd want?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Step down," he said. 

Her face tightened. "I can't do that."

He shrugged. "Then I won't tell you a thing, nor will I give you anything I might have found if I do."

She clenched her jaw, and he felt a burst of satisfaction. _Two can play this game,_ he thought smugly. 

"Fine," she spat. "I'll step down. I won't come between you and your father's throne again. Happy?"

"Ecstatic." He offered her a dry smile that she didn't return. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his sheets of paper. "Here. I thought you might find this interesting."

She snatched the sheets, flipping through them and looking down at what he'd written down. She looked back up at him, and he couldn't read the glint in her eyes, but he had a feeling she'd been placated—for now, at least. 

"Is that all?" she asked.

He gave a perfunctory nod. "That's all."

She exhaled. "Fine." She stepped forward, shoving his sketch into his chest. He caught it, not looking down at it as he did. "Same time here, tomorrow," she said. "I expect you to have more."

"Not tomorrow." He crossed his arms. "I was nearly caught just getting this. Next week, at the earliest."

She waved a hand. "Very well. Next week then, Alucard." She sneered at him and then turned, striding away into the trees, vanishing within seconds. He watched her go, not moving, still standing in the clearing. Once he was sure she was gone, he reached into his pocket, pulling out the calculations he'd done, the twenty pages of his laboring, looking down at them. 

He smiled at where Carmilla had disappeared, putting the sheets back in his pocket along with the sketch. He'd won this round, and while he knew double-crossing her was wrong, he would it rather be him doing the deceiving than the other way around. It was the only way one could stay a step ahead while doing business with one such as Carmilla. 

He turned, and walked back towards the castle without looking back.

* * *

"So," Sypha said, "how do we proceed?"

She was perched on top of a table, swinging her legs with the bestiary balanced on her knees. Trevor was sprawled on the floor at her feet, leaning against a shelf, and Adrian was lounging on a chair beside Sypha, legs crossed and an arm thrown across the back. 

Neither of them had mentioned what had happened between them, so Adrian had kept quiet as well. They were being exasperatingly friendly, as if nothing had happened, and as if they'd never been any more than just casual, close friends. It made him want to tear his hair out.

"Well," Trevor said, leaning back on his hands, "now that we can sort of resist her mind control, we have an advantage. We should press it."

"She doesn't know that yet, so we can take her by surprise," Adrian added, turning to keep them both in sight. "Besides that, what else do we have?"

"Well, we can't take her directly in a fight," Sypha observed. "We're not strong enough. We could split up, distract her and then go in from all sides."

Trevor looked lost in thought. "That could work," he said. "And now that all that blood shit happened, it's a lot more complicated for you," he added, glancing up at Adrian, who avoided his eye as he nodded. "I know. I'm working on it." It was a little stiff, but Trevor let it slide. 

"Okay," Sypha said, biting her lip as she thought. "I was thinking that one of us—probably you, Trevor—will go to confront her first, and maybe Adrian can stay to the side, somewhere she can't sense your presence." She nodded at Adrian. "And then when she least expects it, I'll come in from behind her."

"And do what?" Adrian asked, practically. "Use your fire?"

She shrugged. "I can't really think of anything else. She can't stand my fire, so I'll use it as much as I can. You two can distract her while I sneak up on her; that way, she won't expect it and we can get the best of the element of surprise. She'll never see it coming."

Trevor glanced at Adrian. "Unless she does." He raised a brow at Adrian. "She can get to you, in your head," he said. "Who's to say she doesn't see what we're going to do?"

Adrian sighed. "I suppose I'll just try as hard as I can not to fall asleep."

They both stared at him. "That's... will that work?" Sypha asked finally. 

He shrugged equably. "I'm sure it will. As long as I'm conscious, she can't get to me. Now that I know how her presence in my mind feels, and now that she's made sure I've got Belmont blood in my veins, I can stop her if I try hard. I can't make that conscious effort to repel her if my mind isn't actively working to my own will."

"Huh." Trevor looked up at him, his expression unreadable. Unbidden in Adrian's mind rose the memory of that night outside the library, when he had said, _I'm not going to give you up, even if it means I'm going to die for it._ Adrian had been a fool to think that would be possible, even if Trevor meant it. He looked away, blinking rapidly. He couldn't afford weakness now. 

And Trevor and Sypha were most definitely weaknesses of his. 

"There's a way I can manage not to let her sense me coming," Adrian said, tearing his thoughts away from the bitter longing that constantly churned in his chest. "If I'm in my human form, my thoughts are more coherent, easier for her to shape. If I'm in my wolf form she won't be able to grasp at me."

Sypha snapped her fingers. "That's a good idea," she said. "And you'll be faster, more agile. So you and Trevor will go, Adrian in his wolf form, and we'll do all we can to end this. When do we go?"

"We need a plan B," Trevor said. "Something to fall back on."

"Trevor Belmont, planning carefully?" Adrian blinked wide eyes at him in mock shock, unable to help poking fun at him. "I never thought I'd live to see the day."

The corner of Trevor's mouth flicked up in a small, familiar smile. "Shut up, Vampire Jesus."

Adrian snorted. "Vampire Jesus? That's the best you can come up with?"

"It fits," Sypha said unexpectedly, smiling at him. "You have the hair, the fangs, the holy aura—the whole package."

"See?" Trevor grinned at him. "If Sypha agrees with me, it must mean I'm right."

Adrian rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but laugh. "I can't dispute you there."

Sypha laughed too. "I'm glad the two of you know who's boss," she said with teasing arrogance, folding her arms and thrusting her chin up. Trevor snorted, catching Adrian's eye and grinning at him. Adrian smiled back, and for a moment it was if there was no curse and no Aalis and no Carmilla, and it was just the three of them as it could have been, laughing together at one of Trevor's stupid jokes. 

He let the spark burn, letting the moment live. He clung to the brief happiness it brought with it, not ever wanting to let it go. So he stepped back and allowed himself to laugh with them, memorizing the sound and texture of their voices and the feeling of want and contentment and happiness all melding into one second of bliss. 

They sobered eventually, and Sypha flipped through the bestiary, looking down at Trevor's careful work and Adrian's sketches. She trailed a finger across one he had drawn of Aalis before she had died, appearing lost in thought. 

"It seems sad," she said, raising her head, "that she was so normal, so happy, once."

"Yeah, well." Trevor looked down at his hands, shaking his head. "She is sad, probably more sad than she is angry. It's sort of the driving force behind her whole agenda. She's so sad that it's opened up this huge void inside her, and she thinks the only thing that'll fill it is killing the people who made her that sad—even if we're not the people who did it. It'll give her purpose, something she hasn't had before. She'll even settle for killing the descendants of the descendants of the descendants of the people who did it."

Adrian was gazing at the bookshelf opposite him but not seeing it at all. "You've given this a lot of thought," he observed, his voice far away.

"I suppose." He heard a sigh. "I guess I—I wanted to know why she's doing this, and I sort of get it now. You can't save anyone from that kind of sadness. It's sort of doing her a favor, killing her and finally giving her peace and letting her move on."

"It must have been excruciating," Sypha said, "to be trapped in your own body like that, unable to live but unable to die either. The magic would have been painful, and the transformation must have been agony. It's something we have in our memory stores, the account of one of the first Speaker magicians. The fusion of magic into her body was apparently the most painful thing a living being can experience besides childbirth."

"If not for us," Trevor said, his voice bleak and emotionless, "we have to kill her for her. To let her go, give her that freedom."

Adrian glanced at him finally, sitting on the ground curled up, gazing into space, his jaw set and his eyes cold. He knew that Trevor felt more acutely about this than any of them did, knowing it was connected to him and his family. And now that he was in the same position as she had been in—involved with someone he was forbidden to be with. And he was facing the same horrifying retribution. 

"We'll do it," he said softly, and he saw Trevor's jaw tighten. "We'll end it—tomorrow. We'll go into the woods, we'll face her tomorrow night."

Trevor looked up, his lips parting. "Tomorrow? Isn't that—"

"No, Adrian's right." Sypha leaned down, squeezing his shoulder. "Tomorrow. We have to end this, and if we delay any longer it'll never happen."

He shut his eyes, a hand reaching up to rest on top of Sypha's where hers rested on his shoulder. "Okay," he said, on an exhale of breath. "Tomorrow, then. And after that..."

"We'll take this one crazy ordeal at time," Sypha said softly, and smiled a little sadly at them both, and there were scores of unsaid words behind her eyes, the same words that burned at Adrian's lips, that he knew burned at Trevor's too. They let them go, leaving them free to say them another time, when they could, and when things were different. 

Sypha sighed, her hand falling away from Trevor's shoulder, and Adrian caught her eye. She only nodded, that sad little smile still tilting her lips bitterly—the same longing that he knew shone in his own eyes whenever he looked at them.

"Good things come to those who wait," she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moms rock. Everyone who can, go give your mom a hug.


	18. Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Swords:** _Power, protection, authority and discrimination, and the penetrating power of intellect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, this is late. Sorry about that. 
> 
> Reviews are, as ever, extraordinarily appreciated. :)

**_Trevor_ **

He chased a stray pea around his plate with the tip of his fork, moodily gazing down at it while having no desire whatsoever to eat it. He should have been hungry, since he'd skipped both breakfast and lunch that day, but he just didn't have an appetite. 

But then again, he never could find it in him to do basic, normal tasks when he was preoccupied. Like eat, and sleep. Or think. 

He couldn't remember the last time he had a full night's sleep or a full day's meal, and a little voice in his head was telling him that that was bad, that he needed strength, that he needed to stay healthy because otherwise how could he face Aalis and finally kill her once and for all, even if there was this horrible guilt inside him that didn't want to do it—

"Trevor, are you all right?"

He started, torn from his musings and looking up. His father raised an eyebrow, and he realized belatedly that he'd just asked him a question, and everyone at the table was staring at him. He blushed. 

"Sorry," he mumbled, looking down and poking at his food. "Just... tired."

He didn't look convinced, but he nodded graciously, letting the matter go. "I put a couple of letters in your room. I asked if you'd seen them."

"Oh." His mind felt totally blank. Letters? What letters? He hadn't seen any letters in his room, unless he had and then had dismissed it as nothing. When was the last time he'd cleaned the place up? It was a mess...

"Yeah, I—I'll read them tonight," he said, dragging his thoughts back to the present. "I've been a little busy... reading." He cleared his throat, then stood abruptly. Everyone stopped eating and blinked up at him, and he cleared his throat again. "May I be excused?"

His mother frowned at him. "You've hardly eaten a bite, Trevor. You should—"

"I'm not hungry. Really," he added at her raised eyebrow, already edging out of the dining room. "I've just... had a long day, I should get to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."

She looked so concerned and like she wanted to protest that he softened a little, moving over to her and swooping down, giving her a little kiss on the cheek. "I'm fine," he said, drawing away and moving towards the door. "Really." He gave her a smile that he hoped was as genuine as he'd intended, then quickly left, shutting the door behind him. 

He climbed the steps to his room wearily, his head throbbing. He felt like he had a really, really bad hangover—a perpetual hangover that didn't go away no matter how much he tried to chase it away. He'd taken to alternating between sharp alcohol and dark, bitter coffee to help himself stay awake all night, and that was the only thing in his system, chasing away sleep and fatigue. 

He shut his room door behind him, locking it for good measure. He knelt by his bed, lifting the edge of the mattress and taking out three or four heavy volumes that he'd picked up in the Hold, ones written in an old, archaic Latin that he just managed to understand. He'd looked for them while Adrian and Sypha were busy, tucking them into his cloak and making sure they didn't know he'd taken them. 

He sat heavily on his bed, opening the first one. He'd already read through one other cover to cover, and had jotted down helpful points in case he needed them. He knew these books were old and dangerous and had more magic than he had the power to use wisely, but he was desperate. 

He knew that breaking a curse wasn't impossible, but it took enormous sacrifice to do it. Most of the stuff in the books involved all sorts of insane rituals, dark pagan pentagrams and substituting the effects of one curse with another's—taking away fertility, beauty, age. Prices nobody wanted to pay. 

It was dark magic, and he knew he shouldn't be trifling with it. But he knew that he would go mad if he had to wait any longer, and something in him was telling him time and time again that they wouldn't kill her, not soon. She would not die so easily, not even with a thought-out plan and a strong front on their side. He had a feeling that it would be much, much more difficult to end it. 

He gazed down at the spell in the book spread out in his lap, one that claimed to break the strongest of curses but promised seventeen years of sorrow and bad luck afterward. He bit his lip, flipping the page, his eyes sliding over words he'd read before a hundred times. _Curses cannot be broken by any but those who place it there. Only when all sin is forgiven and the one who wielded hatred and magic as a weapon learns to love again, the curse will fracture and be no more._

He slammed the book shut, a sudden wave of anger cresting over him. It would never happen. The only way to break the curse was if Aalis did it herself. And he knew that she would never, ever lift that curse. Even if she hadn't been the one who had cast it.

He sat up, the book sliding from his limp grip and landing facedown on the bed. Aalis _hadn't_ been the one who'd cast the curse on him. It had been his own family. He knew that the only way to lift the curse was kill Aalis, since it was tied to her life-force, but if only forgiveness could break it without having to kill her, could he break it somehow?

He held his breath, fumbling for the papers he kept on his bedside table, the notes he'd made of everything he'd read in the books. His fingers caught the sheets up and he held them up—then stilled, blinking down at them. 

They weren't the sheets he'd written on but about five or six large letters, their envelopes thick and firm, still sealed. He remembered the letters his father had mentioned, and curiosity prevailed—he slid a hand beneath his pillow, drawing out the small silver dagger he stowed there, in case some vengeful vampire or demon decided to pay him a visit in the dead of night (which had happened a few times before, two or three unfortunate incidents where he'd nearly been found out by his parents). 

He slit the first envelope open, breaking the seal—a heavy-looking wax one, red, with a symbol on it, a stork with a sword clutched in its beak, one he vaguely recognized—and drawing out the letter inside. He threw the envelope aside, gazing down at the careful lettering inked on the paper. 

He felt disgust and panic and anger all at the same time explode in his chest as he read, his headache tripling as the words swam in front of his eyes. _Proposal of marriage,_ it read. _Arrange a union, a lasting bond between our noble houses._

He flung it aside, snatching up the next one, then the next one, then the next one. Every single one was the same. Every single one was a proposal, a promise of a new girl, a new life, a new hell where he'd bleed every single day. He hated them, the letters lying there with their stark black ink caging him in a life he didn't want, the people writing them, the fathers and mothers and lords and ladies who wanted to dictate the lives of their daughters and sons. 

He grabbed them all with shaking hands, grasping them tightly in his fingers and tearing them into pieces, then the pieces into pieces, until there was nothing left of them but a pile of bits of paper, shredded and torn apart beyond repair. He had never felt so angry, so defeated, so alone. 

He sank down onto his bed, his books and papers forgotten, and put his face in his hands.

* * *

It was raining again.

The drizzle hung in the air like a perpetual mist, staining the trees and the sky a pale, pearly gray. The grass underneath his feet crunched with frozen dew and frost, and it smelled like rain, the scent of wet earth and mist and dampness permeating the air around him. He walked with his head down, moving away around the back of the manor. 

The estate was fairly large, and the graveyard was a ways away from the main part of it, tucked away in a little glade that was always shaded by the canopy of the trees above it. He knew that usually in big estates like theirs the crypt was usually in the lower levels of the manor, but it had always been a Belmont tradition to bury their dead outside, to let them rest in the earth that they defended when they breathed. 

He reached the glade, pushing aside the curtain made by the weeping boughs of willows that were planted in a perfect circle around the graveyard. It hid the place, creating a small, separate space of its own that was untouched by anything outside, anything other. He didn't go there very often, but when he did made him feel both at peace but unnerved at the same time—but mostly he felt like he had a sense of duty stronger than anyone else's going there, knowing that he was the only one carrying out the legacy they had begun. 

He moved along the graves, trailing his fingers along the chipped gray stone of the tombs, the intricate carvings in their surfaces. They had been carved as their likenesses, each detail of their faces with closed eyes and hands gripping swords and whips rendered clearly, so it seemed as if the statues were sleeping beneath the trees and the sky. 

A tree had been planted above each body, their roots digging into the stone of the tombs, branches splayed above it like a protective mother shielding her child with her arms outstretched. He moved towards the ones farthest in the back, eyes moving over the names etched into the tombs, their stone faces still and peaceful in the crisp morning light. 

He stopped at one of the tombs in the far end of the glade, the faded year etched into the top of the headstone dated nearly exactly two hundred years ago. He knelt by it, feeling the cold of the frost beneath his feet seep into his knees. He shivered, placing a hand on the stone of the coffin. It was cool to the touch, and rough from centuries of exposure to the elements. 

_"Étienne Belmont,"_ he read aloud, softly. It was a strong, French name, a tradition his mother had told him had been in the family ever since they moved to Wallachia from France. To keep their roots strong, she'd said. For honor and strength. 

"So you're the one who cursed that land," he murmured, glancing at his wife's name. _Elena Belmont._ He wondered what family she'd been from, before she married a Belmont. "You fucked up pretty badly, you know," he said, tapping the tombs. "Ruined a couple lives, killed a few innocents—just a Tuesday for you, wasn't it?"

The tomb, thankfully, didn't answer him. 

He sighed, rubbing a finger on the worn stone. Why had he come here? To try and break the curse somehow, see if there was any way to do it, if it was tied to these people who had cast it. But how could he, if they were dead and gone, their bones surely dust by now? 

He stood, moving around the side of the tomb where the lid rested heavily on the coffin, not sealed but held in place by weight and gravity. He brushed a few cobwebs off it, then carefully grasped the lid, pushing it off slowly until it tipped, and he lowered one end to the ground, feeling it dig into the earth. 

He leaned over the coffin, now open. The shroud inside was beyond moth-eaten, only a thin, translucent sheet left of it. Below it he could see a thin layer of dust, crumbing bone and more cobwebs, all that was left of the body. He could see a family ring lying bright and silver among the dust, and a heavy silver chain as well, glinting even after centuries of neglect. 

A sword was lying in the remains as well, a heavy one with a crossguard forged from gold and the blade from blessed silver. It was obviously unused; the blade was too perfect, too pristine. It was bright and untainted even now, and he tentatively reached inside the coffin and removed it, holding it with the tips of fingers and examining it. This had been a possession of the man who'd cursed the land, one he'd been holding before he died. Could it possibly have the answer to the question he'd been asking for so long?

He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, thinking hard. Would it be wrong to take the sword when it belonged to a dead man? Was it disrespectful to pinch a blade—even though it was technically a family heirloom—from a grave, snatch it from the (metaphorical) dead hands one of his ancestors? 

He decided he didn't care. 

He slid the sword into its sheath, then tucked it into his shirt, hiding it beneath his cloak. He hefted the lid of the coffin off the ground, sliding it back on top. He knew he was probably imagining it, but Étienne seemed to be glowering at him even more than he had been before as he replaced the lid, sliding it back into place and dusting off his hands. 

"You deserve it, you bastard," he muttered, flicking the top of the tomb with his thumb and forefinger. "You did your fair share of shit in your lifetime." This man had killed his own daughter and hadn't cared, all because of their notions of honor and what a Belmont should be. There had been no honor in what he'd done. 

There was something of Aalis' father in her face, he thought distantly, as he gazed down at the tomb, the statue carved into it. She had inherited his wide-set eyes, his cliff-high cheekbones, his cupid's-bow lips. It was a little unnerving, seeing the face of the man who'd done all this, who had started it all and condemned his own blood for something so inconsequential as loving someone who was only half of what they hunted. 

"How'd you react if you knew about me?" he asked quietly, standing up. "She was in love with a dhampir... and then there's me, messing around with a dhampir and a Speaker magician at the same time, behind my family's back. I'm sure you'd have been proud."

He sighed, lowering his head. "I guess I should be glad nothing held your spirit back, else you'd have weeded me out a long time ago, wouldn't you?" He gazed at the tomb expressionlessly, at the patches of moss that grew on it, the cracks in its facade. He backed away from the grave, moving away from it and back towards the curtain woven from the willows' drooping branches. 

He turned on his heel and walked away from the graveyard quickly, shivering as he felt a cold wind sweep through the air. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, feeling the sword he'd tucked beneath his shirt like a weight against his skin, colder than the breeze and making another shiver travel down his spine.

He reached the house, quickly sliding through the doors, which were open a crack. Moving quickly up the stairs without being noticed he ducked into his room, locking it behind him as he drew the blade out, tossing it onto his bed. 

He crossed the room in a few strides, drawing the books from their hiding place and opening the largest of the four he'd brought from the Hold, and clearly the oldest—it was bound in cracking burgundy leather, the edges of the spine held with gold braces and the title stamped in embossed gold as well. He flipped to the page he'd found yesterday, marked with a thick silk bookmark that he'd tucked between the thin papers.

 _An object taken from the hands of the dead._ His eyes fell on the sword lying on his bed, having loosened from its sheath just an inch or so, showing a slender strip of gleaming silver. He drew it from its sheath entirely, running a practiced finger along the edge, testing its sharpness, its durability. 

If he did this... he could break the curse. It could finally be over. He could finally breathe without feeling like there were knives slicing into his lungs, he could finally blink without feeling his eyes burn, he could finally sleep and not wake in the middle of the night with nightmares blazing fresh in his mind. He could alleviate that guilt that was eating away at his insides, finally harden against what he knew he had to do. 

_A tear and a blade soaked in the blood of a lover,_ the next line read. 

He exhaled, setting the book aside. He didn't know if he was going to do it. The spell was old, forgotten and dangerous. If he did it, he could ruin everything. He knew it was a horrible idea. But he had to try. He'd go to the village again, tonight. He'd meet Adrian and Sypha, and he would try.

And he'd do everything he could to break the curse before it broke him.

* * *

The wind was cold up here, Trevor thought, colder than it was amidst all the bodies emitting heat and humidity on the ground and the houses spilling warmth from their doors and kitchens. Down there it was brighter, warmer, less detached from reality. 

But he liked it up here, perched high on the roof of one of the taller, abandoned houses. The stone beneath his legs was slick and cold from all the wind and rain that had accosted it for the past few days, but he couldn't bring himself to mind it. The air that filled his lungs was clear, bitingly so, and fresh, untainted by smoke from chimneys and pipes and the voices of haggling commonfolk down in the square below. 

He had a pretty clear view of the village center from up there, and he was just high enough to not be able to hear them but just low enough to make out who was who, and what they were doing. It was better that way; he'd be able to catch Adrian or Sypha if they came this way. Sypha surely would, since she had to cross the square to get out of the village and into the forest, and Adrian would most likely poke his head in to look for her. 

He had to admit it was interesting, watching the people live their lives down below, the ordinariness of their existence and the normalcy with which they functioned. He tried to imagine how it'd be if he was among them, just another regular person amidst the masses, where his life revolved around harvests and his biggest problems were whether the yearly rains arrived on time or not, or whether he sold everything he'd grown over the past week. 

He had to admit the idea held the charm of simplicity—which was admittedly a strong one—but what would his life be, without the thrill of the hunt and the hum of blessed metal against his fingers, and the purity that came with purging the world of the shadows that pervaded it? And what would his life be, without Adrian and Sypha?

For they were a spark that burned as bright, if not brighter, than any he'd encountered; they were a part of his other life, the life he lived outside home and the life that was forbidden, as entangled in the net of the supernatural as much as any creature he hunted down and killed. A powerful user of magic and a dhampir were as forbidden to him as the weapons that were buried in the Belmont Hold, wield them though he may. 

He leaned back, looking up at the sky. It was a deep, dark fathomless blue, but the clouds hid most of it, layering the whole thing with a pale gray that churned with thunder and lightning, promising a storm soon to come. He didn't much like the rain; it guaranteed a very low visibility, and he was usually disadvantaged in a fight if there was rain. 

He glanced down at the square again and started when he saw a familiar figure crossing it—slight, with a shock of reddish-blonde hair and bundled in sky-blue. He scrambled backwards off the roof, moving quickly off it and sliding down the banister of the old, rickety staircase, and fetched up at the back of the square. 

He swung around the house, skidding into the square, out of breath. He moved across it quickly, pushing people aside in his haste to get to her. Just before she ducked onto the street and out of the square he reached her, catching her by the elbow and spinning her around to face him. "Sypha—"

She jumped, throwing his hand off her arm with a surprising ferocity, turning with something almost like fear and anger in equal measure in her eyes. It gave way when they fell on him, turning to recognition and relief that was stark enough to make concern tug at him. She exhaled, stepping back. 

"Trevor," she said. "I—what are you doing here?"

"Who did you think I was?" He hadn't meant to ask, but the question had slipped out anyhow. Well, it was too late to take it back now. 

Hesitation pulled at her face visibly, and she swallowed. "No one, I was just... surprised. I didn't expect to see you here. I was on my way to your place, actually."

He let the matter go, seeing how visibly uncomfortable she was. Again he wondered who she'd mistaken him for, who could make her so relieved that it wasn't them. "Fine," he said instead. "About that... I was thinking we should just stay here tonight. There's no point going back to the library, we've got everything we need."

"Oh." She eyed him critically, and he fought to keep his face open, honest. "All right, I suppose," she said at last, shrugging. "Where to, then?"

"I'm not—"

"Trevor," said a voice, and they both turned in unison to see Adrian striding towards them, a hand on the hilt of his sword at his hip and his brows drawn together. "What are you doing here?" he asked as he drew up to them, frowning. "I thought we were going back to the Hold."

"About that." He nodded. "There's no point going back now, we've got everything we need. And we should start thinking of how we're going to go into the forest again tomorrow night. It's easier this way, if we're here."

Adrian was frowning at him, tapping a finger against the hilt of his sword. "Are you sure?" was all he asked. "It's safer there, and it's less likely we'll be overheard."

"Pretty sure." He subtly wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, trying not to look guilty. This was for their good, all three of theirs—and it'd give them an advantage against Aalis. He'd been telling himself over and over again since yesterday that he was doing the right thing. Something was telling him that it was, on a lot of levels, wrong. But he couldn't think about that now. 

They set off along the road, Trevor in between, with Sypha and Adrian on either side of him. There was silence, punctuated only by the crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the thunder rumbling above them. It felt odd, walking with them like this the way they had before everything went wrong. 

"So," Adrian said finally, breaking the silence. They had cleared the village now, and were standing at the edge of the forest. "What now?"

He turned to Adrian. "You haven't had any weird visions or anything, have you?" he asked, rather abruptly. "She doesn't know what we're planning?"

"She doesn't know," Adrian said, firmly. Trevor noticed vaguely that he'd dodged the first question. "I'm positive she doesn't know. I've firmly kept her away from that information. Moreover, she can't read my thoughts exactly. It's more of... a sort of emotional sensing, or something along those lines. Like my glamour, except stronger."

"And multi-dimensional," observed Sypha. "You can't telepathically glamour someone, but she can."

"She's not targeting you," noted Adrian, nodding at Trevor. "She can, but she's not. Why?"

"You said her lover was a dhampir," shrugged Trevor. "So are you. It connects you more emotionally than it does for me, even if we have the same blood. I think she's a little into you, Adrian." He felt a little teasing grin tug at the corner of his lips in response to Adrian's blush. 

"She's not," he protested. "That's disgusting. She's hundreds of years old, and moreover, she's dead. Undead. Whichever."

 _"Anyhow,"_ Sypha interrupted, putting a hand on Trevor's arm, "moving on, Trevor's right. She sees you as a potential sympathizer, Adrian. We should play that to our advantage as well, maybe deceive her into thinking he's going to help her."

"That's a little cruel," said Trevor after a short pause. "Tricking her like that and killing her the same way my family did before..."

"She's killing innocents, Trevor," Sypha said. "She's not a person anymore, she's a monster. She doesn't have... impulses, or instincts. Everything human about her was corroded and burned away when the magic took hold. We can't look at her as anything but another creature to get rid of."

He sighed, looking up at the clouds. "I know," he said. "But... to be killed by your family in one life for something so stupid and trivial, and then hundreds of years later you come back for revenge and to make them understand what they did... only to be killed by your family again, for the second time. It's just... it doesn't sit that well with me."

"You don't want to kill her?" Adrian asked, not without some gentleness. He put a soft hand on Trevor's shoulder, and with Sypha's hand on his other arm they were linked, all three of them, standing in one unbroken line. 

"I... don't know." He looked down. "I just don't know anymore. I think about it and I just feel so fucking _guilty_. In a way, aren't we finishing what my family started? Killing an innocent girl for something as simple as being in love with someone she can't be with." It felt strange and tarnished almost in his mouth as he said it, standing between two people with who he was guilty of the same crime. 

"They killed an innocent woman," Sypha said, quietly. "You're not. She's become something she wasn't before. You're doing her a mercy by ending it, you said it yourself. Why are you second-guessing yourself now, Trevor?"

"It's just—I've been thinking about it a lot," he said haltingly. "What exactly are we doing? Who are we avenging? Her? My family? These people? Who are we fighting for?"

"The people she's killed," Adrian said, shaking his head, "they were innocent people. They did nothing, and she killed them, just to make a point. And she's too far gone to even think of as anything resembling human anymore Trevor. Why are you thinking these things? This is what she wants, for us to double back and hesitate. She will nave no mercy if we do that."

He took in a deep breath, feeling his hands clench into fists. He felt his nails dig into his palms hard, and the pain helped ground him. It was threatening to spill out, all of his doubts and insecurities and fear, everything he'd been so desperately trying to hide ever since he had realized what had happened to Aalis and why she had become what she was. 

"In a way, I... I feel responsible for her fate," he said. "It was my family that did that to her; the same blood that ran in their veins runs in mine. I feel like it's sort of my duty to make sure that I right their wrong and... save her, I don't know." 

"You feel a sort of guilt," Adrian said softly. "That's perfectly normal. I can understand why you would feel this way—"

"Then _why?"_ His voice cracked and he fought down the torrent of emotion churning inside his chest, fraying the edges of his soul the way fire ate away at paper, first burning the edges before consuming the whole thing in a burst of sparks. "Why do I feel like this is my fault?"

"Because you've committed the same crime she did," Adrian said, his voice flat. "And you know somewhere deep down that you won't pay the same price she did. You know you'll get away with it. And now you have to face her and kill her knowing that, knowing you did the same thing but nothing happened to you, and you can't stand that thought."

Trevor opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He felt like he'd just been punched in the stomach. All the breath rushed from his lungs at once, a torrent of air. "I—I didn't—"

"Oh, Trevor." Sypha sounded beyond sad. Her arms came around his shoulders, holding onto him tightly, and his fingers reached up as an automatic response to the intimacy, encircling her arms and clutched onto her for dear life. She radiated warmth and comfort and safety and he clung to it, closing his eyes. 

A moment later Adrian's arms came around them both, and Trevor found himself sandwiched between them, his forehead resting on Adrian's chest and his hands gripping Sypha's arms. He fell and spun and drowned in it, the feeling of both of them there and close, their breath in his ear and their bodies pressed against his and the way they all seemed to fit together perfectly. 

A flash of lightning illuminated the sky for a split second and he saw it behind his closed eyelids, the sudden spark of it lighting everything to bright white for a moment. A deafening boom of thunder sounded, and he felt the rain begin, pattering softly onto the ground like the running steps of a woodland animal. 

Still they didn't let go of each other, holding each other so tightly it almost hurt, and Trevor could feel both their heartbeats and his own, rising and falling to mimic each other, slowing and calming and then settling into one familiar syncopated rhythm that lulled him into a trance, aware of nothing else, even as the rain began to fall harder, pouring from the sky and onto the earth. 

"We will fix this," Adrian said, his lips brushing the shell of Trevor's ear, making him shiver. "We'll go there and we'll meet her, and we'll end this. I swear it."

"And we'll break the curse," whispered Sypha. "We'll break the curse, and then we won't ever have to worry about any of this anymore."

He held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing thoughts of the books and papers and the sword lying in his room away from his mind. He couldn't think about that now, not when saying it would mean leaving this moment, breaking free from the comforting cage of their arms, not when it meant that they would know that he—

"Trevor?" Adrian's arms tightened around him, almost like a reflex. "What's wrong?"

 _Shit._ He inhaled shakily, tying to calm his heartbeat, trying to reign in his wayward emotion, knowing Adrian could sense it on the fringes of his own consciousness. He'd nearly forgotten he could sense that sort of thing. "Nothing," he mumbled, mashing his face further into Adrian's chest.

"Say it." He fought down a shiver as Adrian's lips just ghosted over his cheek. "You can say it, it's okay."

He didn't know whether there was glamour in his voice or not, but the answer seemed to drag itself from his lips of its own accord, bypassing his brain entirely and leaving him as surprised as Adrian and Sypha, if not more so. "I've been reading about how to break it," he said, his voice muffled but perfectly audible. "The curse."

He felt Sypha still in his arms, but she didn't pull away. "What do you mean?"

"There are books in the library," he said, holding his breath. "Books that deal with curses, and how to end them without getting the caster to do it, or killing the caster themselves, or the life-force that it's attached itself to."

"And?" He knew she could sense where this was going, and he shut his eyes, gritting his teeth. "And I found something. A spell."

"Trevor." Adrian's voice was low, a warning in itself. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," he exhaled. _Yet._ "The spell, it—it needs some stuff that I haven't got, but I can get it. And once I do it might work, and we can—"

"No," Sypha said, and now she drew away. He felt the absence of her warmth against him like a physical blow, and he sucked in a breath when she let go. "No, we can't do that. We need to wait, Trevor. We can't create more problems than we already have."

"Sypha's right." Adrian drew away as well, and finally Trevor felt the rain, slanting down onto him and soaking him through his clothes and making him begin to shiver. "This curse has to be broken naturally. And God knows what sort of black magic that spell contains, you could pay a price worse than death in exchange for what it does."

"But we can't kill her." Rainwater dripped down his face, sliding off his cheeks like tears. "We can't do it."

"Why not?" Adrian's eyes were bright in the dimness, glowing like a cat's. Sypha looked small beside him, tiny almost, coming only until his chest. They were both looking at him, identical little frowns on their faces. 

"It's... it's just a feeling. I don't know. Something's going to go wrong. We still don't know enough about her, her motives, what she really feels. We're unequipped for this, right now. We don't have enough on her to really predict what she's going to do."

Sypha shook her head. "But we can try," she said. "We have to. We can't just sit here and keep reading forever. We have to face her, and even if we don't kill her, we'll learn more about her this way. It has to be done."

"You're desperate," Adrian said, stepping forward, gripping Trevor's shoulders with a bruising grip. "I get it. We all are. But we have to wait and let this path make its own course naturally. If we don't, it could have consequences that are beyond disastrous. Do you understand?"

The rain had plastered his hair to his coat, making the thick locks stick to his shoulders and back in sleek, wet lines of gold. His eyes blazed, his mouth set in a hard line, his grip borderline painful on Trevor's shoulders. He nearly broke right there, nearly let the words that he'd been holding in for so long finally spill from his lips, but somehow he found the strength not to say them. 

"I don't want to lose you both," was all he said instead, and he sounded hollow and bleak and distant to his own ears. "I can't. I don't know what I'll do if that happens."

"We're not going anywhere." Sypha's fingers twined around his, her skin cool against his, the frictionless slide of damp skin soothing his frayed nerves. Her fingers were strong, her grip tight, and he found himself wishing she'd never let go. "We're not leaving you, no matter what happens. We're stronger than that." 

He looked at them, both of them, their resolution and their utter surety that this would all work out somehow. They had faith, he thought; definitely more faith than he did. Faith in their ability to carry out what needed to be done, and faith in him too, to do what he had to and face the demons that had been lurking in the shadows in his wake for far too long. 

"Okay," he exhaled. "Okay, I believe you. We'll do it—but we can't fail. If we go in, we have to do it once, and only once."

"It'll all be over soon," Sypha murmured, taking Adrian's other hand, and they stood together as the rain fell all around them, cold and wet and sweeping them all somewhere far away, a place they could all breathe and live and stay together. "It'll be over, and then there'll be peace."

 _Peace._ The word filled the air between them, and it was enough, even as they stood still and linked, hands and shoulders and skin, and with it ringing in the air unsaid, they kept their silence.

* * *

He was sitting cross-legged on his balcony, barefoot and with his cuffs unbuttoned and pushed up till his elbows, the sword of Étienne Belmont held in front of him. 

He'd never dream of using it—his own short sword was more than enough, and moreover he was used to it, and it had become like an extension of his arm, reliable and comfortably chipped and the perfect balance in his hand. This was too long, the hilt too wide, its edge too weighted on the right side. And it had never been used, which meant the metal would be weaker. 

But something was preventing him from returning it to the tomb of its dead owner, something that told him he would need this blade soon, that it had a part to play in this whole nightmare scenario that had, just a few months ago, merely been another monster to hunt down and kill, just another case among the rest. 

He slipped a hand over the edge to test it, and it nicked his finger just barely—it opened up a scratch on the pad of his fingertip, but didn't open his skin. Not too sharp, then. But that was fixable, if he took a whetstone to it. No blade couldn't be sharpened with a good whetstone and good pair of hands guiding it, but he wanted to leave the blade be. Let trophies be trophies, and perfunctory blades never be sharpened. 

The books were still on his bed, opened to the spell with his notes lying everywhere. He still wanted to try it, but now that Adrian and Sypha knew of it, he knew even a failed attempt would be sniffed out and he'd be stopped. He was still desperate, but perhaps some of it had been curbed for now. 

The rain was still falling as it had been for most of the night, heavy and showing no signs of stopping or even slowing, for that matter. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the black sky, and thunder rumbled amidst the clouds in low, almost comforting crackles. He liked this weather, the storms and the untamed wind and everything but the indefatigable rain.

He stood, his undone braces swinging behind him as he tested the sword out, its length and girth and weight. He took a step back diagonally to the right, favoring his left hand as he usually did as he lifted the blade, then brought it down in a clean arc. It sliced through the air easily, but there was a little drag to it, owing to him being accustomed to using a lighter, shorter sword. 

He thought he felt something in the blade stir as he swung it again, catching an invisible opponent by the hilt, then thrusting, then parrying and back again. He took a measured breath as he moved, yet something seemed to pull at the blade, slowing him down. 

He stopped, holding the sword up to the sky. The moon was hidden by the clouds but he could still see, see the plain blade with an intricate design etched along the middle—its bearer's name, scratched out in flawless lettering. That, and the gilded designs embossed on the hilt and crossguard were the only designs the blade bore, despite being a treasured family heirloom.

Although, he thought, they probably didn't invest much on weapons since they'd been banned from using them after this, he thought idly. He wondered if Étienne Belmont had had wielded Vampire Killer, and then hoped he hadn't. Even his sword was unused, though they'd been hunters in his time. 

He wondered why. It wasn't as if there weren't any monsters to kill at that time. He staved off his curiosity for the time-being, shaking his head and focusing on the blade again. He flipped it over in the air, catching it deftly by the hilt, spinning it in his palm before he caught sight of the small etching near the hilt. 

He lifted the blade to his eye. _"Devil's Advocate,"_ he translated aloud. An odd name for a blade that had been forged for a family of hunters, he thought. He tested out its balance again, placing two fingers beneath the spot where the blade met the hilt, seeing whether it teetered or not. 

It didn't—the mark of a well-forged blade. Even so, something seemed off about it, and it might have been his imagination, but it seemed to be tugging his hand in the direction of the trees far beyond the walls of the manor. He frowned, sheathing it again and moving into the room, shaking off the unwelcome thoughts. 

He took the books off the bed, opening one where he'd tucked a paper in between the pages. He sat, eyes moving over the pages. He was beginning to understand how the curse was cast, what sort of magic had been used and what exactly the words had meant. Everything was in the book, and he was slowly beginning to realize what exactly had happened that night. 

_Should tradition be bound by a life's oath forged in blood, subtle but strong magic flows in the blood of a line,_ it read. _It can be wielded and channeled but not used the way magicians wield the elements, but in a more profound way, through the medium of binding and holding in place with magic, oaths and justice sealed with the words infused with that magic._

He leaned back, glancing at the blade lying on the pillows beside him. So the Belmonts had a subtle magic in their blood, and that was what had enabled them to curse the land effectively. And it had probably supplemented Aalis' transformation, helping the magic settle more firmly in her blood. 

He wondered if his parents knew, then realized they probably didn't. The policy of his family had become, _The less our children know, the better_ over the years, and he supposed defying that rule was what had landed him here in the first place. He sighed, shutting the book and setting it aside. 

They would go to face Aalis tomorrow... and he realized that he was woefully unprepared for the battle that was to come. He'd mastered the mind control thing, and he could resist even Adrian's strongest efforts now. So could Sypha, and Adrian himself had been practicing, so he was sure they were fine in that area. But surely there were so many other things she could do that they couldn't fight back against. 

He ran through the list of powers and magics that faeries usually possessed, but most of them were benevolent, kind almost. The magic that had taken hold of Aalis was corrupt, dark. He had no idea what to expect. 

He reached out a hand, fingers settling once again on the sword— _Devil's Advocate._ Should he take it with him? Would it arouse bad memories? Would it lend them an advantage, or would it turn her magic even more wild, more savage, and would it doom them all? He had no idea. 

He shut his eyes, thinking. She knew about Adrian, that was for sure. But did she even know about how Trevor felt about Sypha? Did she even consider Sypha a part of this puzzle, a piece as important as any of them? She'd definitely been smarter than Trevor and Adrian in the way she'd hidden herself in plain sight, shown herself to Aalis as a force to be reckoned with but not a threat when it came to the curse and her involvement with both of them. 

He rolled onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling, the shifting shadows the storm cast over the white paint. It was worth a shot, surprising her with their plan but again that voice in his mind told him that this time, luck would not be on their side. 

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and then letting it out, feeling some of the tension gathered in his body drain away. There was a strange sort of peace that came with defeat, he supposed, defeat that was accepted even before a battle could be fought. They would try their best, he knew. They would do everything they could. 

But, he thought as he finally drifted off into an uneasy slumber, he knew that this time, even their everything would not be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ominous background bassoon playing*


	19. Wolf Fangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Wolf Fangs:** _A guide into the dark, cleverness and strength against peril._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear with the length of this chapter; I feared it would be too short and wrote a smidge too much, and then went back to edit and realized I didn't want to get rid of anything because it's all important.  
> That being said, hope you enjoy this one, it was really fun to write. Reviews are devoured and converted into love, so please drop one telling me what you think!! :)

**_Adrian_ **

He lay in bed, closing his eyes and listening to the storm outside. 

The curtains were open, letting in the shifting lights it played along the walls, along the sketches hung all over them. He could see the silhouettes cast by the droplets of water the clung to the pane, magnified by the glass and flung on the far wall in stretched translucent shadows.

A sudden flare of lightning from outside lit the room for a brief second, followed almost immediately by a loud crack of thunder, the rain lashing the windows harder. He nestled further into his blankets, feeling warm and safe and dry beneath the covers. Autumn was beginning to stretch slowly into winter, and that always meant the occasional storm here and there, wet spells that preluded snow and hail and cold. 

He had to admit he preferred rain to snow, even though the cold didn't reach his skin. It was damp and sticky and hot even as the cool rain fell, and he liked the way his hair frizzed and curled in the humidity. It made him feel more normal, more human, for his body to react naturally to climate and changes in the weather—even if it took ages to comb the tangles out of his hair afterward. 

He sighed, looking towards the shifting shadows on the sketches hanging on the walls. He'd drawn and added a few more that night, unable to shake off the memory of how they'd felt in his arms, soft and fragile and unbreakable all at once, folding so perfectly into his embrace and how it had nearly killed him to let go. 

He shut his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek hard until the pain of it faded. There was already a bloody gash he'd bitten there after worrying at the skin for so long, and the taste of blood in his mouth was sharp and hot and coppery, grounding him as he opened his eyes. One more day. One more day, and it would all be over. 

It was selfish of him, he knew. He should have been thinking about the bigger picture, the lives they'd be saving, saving Aalis herself, finally purging the Belmont family of the horror they'd committed in the past and bringing peace to their line. But instead all he could think of was the fact that he could finally, _finally_ be with both of them, both Trevor and Sypha, and he could have them both and they'd have him and they'd be together. That was all he wanted. 

He rolled onto his side, gazing out of the window pensively. All he could see of the outside world was a smear of dark blue and silver, and the lashings of rain on the glass, and his own reflection as well—barely a hint of blond fringe, sharp bone, white fang. He could see the flash of pale lashes whenever he blinked, the faint ripple of gold every time his breath stirred his hair. 

He found himself drifting, his thoughts straying to the battle he knew was coming in less than a day. He searched inside himself for a fear, an apprehension that he knew should be there. But it wasn't. He simply wasn't afraid of what was going to happen, what was to come. Anticipating it, yes, but not afraid of it. What would happen would happen, and he'd worried and worried and worried for so long that now there was simply no more worry left in him. 

He knew fate would take its course. Being the son of a scholar with thousands of years' worth of knowledge about science and the world and a doctor, he should have had no inclinations towards fate and predetermined destinies, but it had always fascinated him for some reason, the possibility that his whole life was written already and he was merely reading the words aloud as the clock of his life ticked down. 

He liked to believe that somewhere, something good was waiting for him, and it was certain, written already in the stars scattered above in the sky. It was comforting and in some way exciting, to think he was discovering life rather than living it as he moved along. Even if he knew it was probably, as his father would call it, 'a layman's load of codswallop'. 

They had left, the previous night, both of them. Back to Lupu for a month or so, his mother had said, to see her family, see her people, listen to their qualms and their grievances, heal their sicknesses and injuries. Traveling as his mother liked, deliberately and on foot. She'd dragged his father along, insisting that he needed some fresh air what with all the council sessions and reading and negotiating he'd been doing. 

She had asked Adrian to come along with them, and he would have agreed should there not have been so much to deal with back here. He'd told her as much, and she had merely hugged him tightly and implored him brightly to give her lots and lots of cute grandchildren soon. He had heaved a long-suffering sigh and had bid her farewell, to which she had laughed and wished him luck while she was gone. 

He knew he'd miss her terribly when she was gone, that now there was no one he could tell about what was going on, and he'd come home that night with everything fresh in his mind and had ached heedlessly for her, wishing she was there to sit next to him and put her arms around him and tell him it was going to be all right. 

Although now that they were gone, he couldn't help but think that it'd be much easier now to sneak into his father's study to see what he was doing. Oddly enough, when he had gone in there last, the slender black book he'd picked up the first time he'd gone was missing from its place. Carmilla had retreated for the time-being, and he didn't have to worry about her for another week or so. And good thing too—he had far too much to worry about already. 

Aalis' voice in his mind had vanished, and he hadn't heard from her for days. He didn't even feel the shadow of her presence in his mind, which was a good thing, since she couldn't know about what they had planned to do. However the silence made him uneasy, the way the stillest of calms yielded the most violent of storms after it. It was merely another whisper among the rest, another worry he had tucked away. 

He rolled off his bed, knowing he'd be unable to find sleep, and knowing that he wouldn't dare close his eyes and let himself dream, not when it meant he would be vulnerable, thrown open and an easy target. He padded over to the window, seating himself on the sill and gazing pensively out at the storm. 

There were a few of his father's books on the windowsill as well, one's he'd taken from the study after carefully marking their places on their respective shelves. He opened one, rifling absently through the pages. There was plenty in here that he knew would interest Carmilla, and he'd written it all down—but he'd only give her a few out of those. Giving her nothing was an option, but though he was new to the art of subtle deception, he knew that it was best to give her enough to seem honest. 

The rest, he would keep to himself. 

The rest, like intricate drawings of strange machines, formulas and equations to help build them and their uses. The rest, like diary entries from years long since past, entries that spoke of meetings and unlikely alliances and tactics discussed for war. The rest, like things Adrian knew would be disastrous in Carmilla's hands. 

Another ear-splitting boom of thunder sounded, following a long, slender crack of forked lightning that split the sky open above, and the rain pounded harder against the glass of his window. He gathered up his notes from where he'd tucked them between the pages of the book, chewing on his lower lip as he glanced over them. They'd have to do, he thought; he couldn't tell her everything, just some of it. 

He hated to lie, even if he might have had a flair for the same. He'd found more and more lies passing his lips lately, first to his parents, then to Trevor and Sypha, and now to Carmilla. But they were lies told with good intentions, were they not? And two of those lies had been exposed already, one against his will. He supposed it was only a matter of time before Carmilla found out he was withholding information from her and not being entirely truthful, but there was time yet for that to happen.

He placed the books back on his desk, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window, gazing out at the storm outside. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath as he prepared to take the next few steps, carefully positioning himself for the dance of deception. 

And so he closed his eyes and he waited and he thought and he hoped as outside, the storm played its symphony for the world to hear.

* * *

It felt odd walking out the front door.

Usually he'd sneak out the back, or sometimes even from his window. But now that there was nobody to catch him leaving, he could walk out through the entrance hall the way he did normally. 

It was midmorning, noon mere hours away. All the rain from the past few nights and days had sucked all the clouds out of the sky, which was a bright, pale blue. The sun was weak, but it was there, glinting and shimmering above him as he walked through the forest, which was dappled with light from the sunlight slanting through the canopy.

He'd been restless in the castle, with nothing to do and nobody to talk to. So he had decided to come outside, since there was nobody to stop him and nobody to ask him where he was going and who he was meeting. So he'd left, feeling oddly like a child deliberately breaking the rules his parents had set out for him as he had. 

He had still found himself numb to what was to come that evening, and that his nerves had translated into a sort of restlessness and an inability to sit still. He'd taken out his sword and practiced until his arms were sore and he'd been drenched in sweat, then he'd gone to his father's study and wrote and wrote until his fingers shook and there was ink all over his hands, and then he'd decided to leave the house. 

It was nice, he supposed, to simply walk like this in the sunshine, hearing the crunch of dead leaves beneath his boots and hear the trills of birdsong in the air around him, feel the breeze stirring his hair, cool but not biting. It seemed strange, that the same woods that could be so sinister by night, filled with old hatred and magic and wildness could be so serene and pretty by day. 

Merely one of the countless ironies of the world, he supposed as he ducked out of the cover of the trees, moving towards the horizon, where the smoke from chimneys and the faint strain of people's voices preceded the small village that lay ahead. He moved towards it, glancing up at the kites and hawks that circled the sun high up above, outlined against the blue of the sky. 

He caught sight of the Speaker's caravan on his way into the village, shaded by a slanting outcropping from one of the larger, abandoned barns that ringed the outer levels. It looked still and empty, and while his steps faltered as he passed it, he decided to keep moving, sure that Sypha wasn't inside.

People smiled at him as he walked by, fleeting glances, tilts of their heads and lips. It was Sunday, and by the looks of it, Mass had just ended; the square was packed, people bustling around with wares in their arms and some with children clinging to them, their husbands and wives beside them. The doors of the church had been flung open, and people were trickling out in a steady stream. 

He caught sight of a couple of Speakers here and there, but when he moved closer, he'd deflate a little when he'd see that it wasn't Sypha and move away again, an eye out for her signature cloud of strawberry curls. 

He'd just finished his second absent circling of the square when he heaved a sigh and decided to poke his head into the church, seeing as standing around and waiting for something to happen didn't really seem to be doing him much good. He walked towards it, wading through the crowd of people coming out the doors as he did, slipping between gaps in the melee and getting his feet trodden on more than once. 

He reached the steps, about to mount them when a voice at his elbow said, "The Lord thanks you, friend."

He whirled around, startled, and saw a tall young man standing at the foot of the steps beside him, maybe a few years older than he was. He was dressed in the voluminous black robes of a high-ranking deacon, which was strange considering his youth. His eyes were a bright, though flinty gray that moved over him rather critically, and Adrian noticed they lingered on the half-mess of a braid his hair was in, and the ink all over his fingers. 

"I'm—I'm sorry?" Adrian asked, bewildered. 

"My apologies for seeming exceedingly forthcoming," said the man, smiling rather blandly. He was tall, Adrian thought as he mounted the steps to face him. "But if I'm not mistaken, you are one of the men who have stopped the killings that recently plagued the forest."

"I—yes." He blinked. "But..." _They're not stopped, not yet,_ he wanted to say, but the deacon's face was so open and convinced that he decided against it. "Yes, I'm... one of them," he said haltingly, at last. 

"Then you've done this establishment a great favor, a great honor," said the man, sweeping his arms wide. His robes caught the breeze, blowing up around him like the wings of a raven, black and rippling. "We all owe you a great debt, you and the other man who comes by night."

Adrian took a step back, remembering that day Sypha had saved that boy, how they had returned to the village and how everyone had thanked Trevor and him, how they'd shoved her away and refused to see that it had been her and not them. Everyone seemed to skip Sypha, he thought with a sudden burst of anger, everyone seemed to write her off and see only what they wanted to. 

"I'm not sure if you know," he said, "but it isn't only us. There's another, a Speaker girl, I think you might know her—"

The deacon's eyes sparked, and he gazed at Adrian with a renewed sort of interest, as if he had just realized something he'd wanted to know for a while. "Ah yes, the Speaker girl," he said, and Adrian couldn't detect anything from his tone. "I do know her, rather unfortunately."

"And why is that unfortunate?" He frowned. 

The deacon's smile was a mask. "I'm afraid our few meetings have not gone too well," was all he said, and his tone immediately set off warning bells ringing in Adrian's mind. "Alas, I feel we do not... what is it they say? _Get along,_ very well."

"Oh?" He hang back, wary. "Why is that, exactly?"

"Merely a difference in opinion," said the deacon, waving a dismissive hand. "A trivial matter." He gazed keenly at Adrian, who fidgeted a little under his stare. "Your companion, why is it he comes only by night?"

Adrian stared at him. "I... I mean, he—he's..."

"And what was it, exactly, that was killing the men?" He gazed hungrily at Adrian, as if knowing would somehow satiate him. "Was it a creature of the night? How did you kill it?"

"I—I don't—"

"Alucard," said a voice, and he was so surprised that he turned, eyes wide, to see Sypha running up the steps towards him, a big smile on her face that was clearly fake. She caught up to him, grabbing his elbow as she gasped for breath. "I was looking all over for you," she said in a falsely bright voice, still smiling that enormous fake smile.

"S—Sypha," he said, at a total loss. "What are you... what are you doing h—"

"You _promised_ you'd meet me at the fountain," she said, her eyes widening at him in a very clear _shut-up-NOW_ sort of look. "You silly thing, always forgetting things," she went on, rolling her eyes with a smile.

 _What?_ was all he could think. "Er—I—sorry," he managed at last. 

The deacon was glaring at them, and Sypha glared right back, her hands tightening on Adrian's elbow. He looked between them, and he reflected on the spot that he had scarcely felt more lost or more clueless in his whole life. 

"So," Sypha said with an exaggerated flourish, pulling Adrian along with her, "we'll just go now."

The deacon glowered as she dragged him away, and Adrian managed to shoot him an apologetic look that probably came off as merely amused, because he looked even more incensed than he did before as the crowd closed up after them. The wall of people blocked him from view as Sypha pulled him to the other side of the square, beside the fountain. 

"What on earth was that all about?" he asked indignantly, the moment she let go of his arm, dusting off her robes. 

She gave him a lopsided half-smile. "You looked like you needed some help," she said. "Luckily for you, I was there to provide some." She flashed a cheeky smile and he laughed, shaking his head. "In that case, thank you, dear Sypha," he said, and she grinned at him. 

"What was he nagging you about, anyway?" she asked, running a hand through her wind-tangled hair. His eyes caught on the movement, the tantalizing curls the wind had tousled. He tore his eyes away and shrugged, scuffing the ground with the tip of his boot. "Just the killings and how we stopped them," he said. 

"I hope you didn't bring me up," she said, raising an eyebrow. 

He sent her an apologetic smile. "You might have cropped up somewhere," he admitted. "He doesn't seem to like you much," he ventured cautiously. 

She huffed a derisive laugh, looking away. "You could say that," she muttered. 

He raised an eyebrow. "It's not my business, but..."

She sighed, sitting on the lip of the fountain and resting her elbows on her knees, her palms pillowing her cheek. "Just... we have a bad habit of meeting at all the wrong places at all the wrong times," she said haltingly. "He's just another ignorant man, like so many others. There's always someone who exists to tell you that you can't do it—and he's that person for me."

He said nothing, gazing at the glimmering stone bottom of the fountain, where the people had tossed countless coins, which blanketed the bottom in a glittering carpet of copper and silver. For luck, he supposed. He'd never taken stock in those things, but it was what drove mankind—belief. 

"Has he caused any problems?" he asked finally. 

"None of import," she said, crossing her legs and leaning over the fountain, dipping a finger into the water. Ripples expanded outwards from where her fingers touched the surface, spiraling from the spot. "He's a nuisance, but I can handle it."

There was something guarded in her tone, and he let the matter go, knowing that his intervention wouldn't be taken kindly to. "If you say so," he said, sitting beside her on the fountain.

"I do," she said, turning large blue eyes up to him, the same clear cerulean as the water that glimmered in the fountain beside them, spilled from the top in elegant cascades. He nodded, stretching his legs out in front of him, watching the square fill up. "How did you know the people here know me as Alucard?" he asked finally, glancing at her. "I don't remember ever telling you that."

She smiled. "I met one of the little girls once," she said. "She told me she knew I was a friend of yours, and it took me a while to realize she was talking about you. She gave me flowers to give you," she sighed. "They... they didn't last till that night, but she's quite taken with you, as all the girls here are." She sent him a sideways glance. 

He laughed a little. "They've always been most enthusiastic about me," he said. "I've always wondered why..."

"Really?" she asked, her voice dripping sarcasm. "Do you not own any mirrors, Adrian?"

He turned to her, brows furrowed. "What?"

She sighed, shaking her head. "Little girls are simple creatures," she said. "You're probably the most handsome man they've ever laid eyes on. In their eyes, that's more than enough to guarantee interest."

He felt himself blushing and looked down at his fingers, chewing on the inside of his lip. "Well..."

"Don't tell me no one has ever told you that you're inhumanly good-looking before," she said after a pause. "Besides your mother, of course," she added. 

He laughed. "I—I've heard it before," he allowed after a while. "Just... not where it matters."

She looked at him, her face open and guileless and totally honest. "Well, for what it's worth," she said, "I think you're beautiful, Adrian Tepes. Inside and out. But mostly out."

He burst out laughing. "Why thank you, kind maiden," he said, but secretly feeling rather touched by it all. "It matters a great deal." 

She smiled, then glanced away, drawing out a small coin from one of her innumerable pockets and tossing it into the fountain. It landed in the water with a small, faint splash, then sank to the bottom, a spark of copper sinking downwards. It settled on the layer of coins glimmering there, glinting along with the rest. 

"What did you wish for?" he asked. 

She glanced at him, the wind blowing her hair across her eyes. "It won't come true if I tell you," she said, a small smile flitting across her face. "That's what they say, anyway. I'm not sure how far that's true. Mainly it's just an excuse for insecurity about what one wishes for. Often the smallest wishes echo the most intimate desires of one's heart."

He lifted a hand, reaching out and tucking the wayward strands of hair behind her ear. She shut her eyes briefly at his touch, her lower lip snagging on her teeth. It felt nice to touch her again like this, so casually, as if nothing were stopping him from doing so. He ignored the memory that threatened to rise up in front of his eyes, that night in the Belmont Hold when he had let himself lose the smallest shred of control, had given into the impulse that had briefly overtaken him. 

He still remembered the taste of her, how she'd felt in his lap, warm and strong and fragile all at once. He let himself remember it, let it wash over him in that one fleeting second he touched her. _Tonight,_ he told himself. 

"Did you realize why they call me Alucard?" he asked, dropping his hand. 

She opened her eyes, swallowing. "It's 'Dracula' spelled backwards," she said, her voice slightly uneven. "Clever."

"I thought so, too." He turned back in front, sighing. "Hearing it can be tiring, though. A reminder that outside, to the people, I'm not defined as my own person but as Dracula's son. Not the name that I was given but the name that was given to me."

She nodded musingly. "I think I prefer Adrian," she said, turning to look at him. 

He looked back at her. "Me too," he said. 

They gazed at each other a long while, silence between them. Finally Sypha broke it, looking away, her cheeks a little pink. "I'm afraid," she admitted, "about tonight. Nervous, I suppose you could say."

"I'm not," he said honestly. "Why worry about something that you can't change?"

"It hasn't happened yet," she pointed out. 

"Hasn't it?" He leaned back on his hands, sighing. Sypha sounded surprised when she spoke again. "You mean... fate? Destiny?"

"More of a sort of inability to change the future," he corrected. "It might not be, it might be predetermined. I don't know, but it's sort of comforting to know everything is definite and we can only do so much to influence it."

"We can prepare."

"Of course, but how much does that change? Not much." He shrugged. "We've done as much as we possibly could, so I feel that no amount of worrying could change what will happen tonight."

"Well then," she said after a pause, "I hope whatever is written goes in our favor, then."

He smiled at her, but he felt sad for some reason. "All we can do now is hope," he said. He drew a small copper from his pocket, inspecting it before deftly tossing it into the water. It splashed as it hit the surface before disappearing among the numerous others littering the bottom. 

Sypha glanced at him. "You wished for hope?"

He gazed down at the thick carpet of coins at the bottom of the fountain, countless wishes and hopes and dreams rippling under the water. He looked back up at Sypha, her curious blue eyes. 

"It's bad luck to say," he said, echoing her earlier words. She laughed, tipping her head up to look at the sky, still smiling when she looked back at him. "Well," she said, "then I'm sure it'll come true."

He smiled back at her. "Let's hope," was all he said.

* * *

The rows of skulls grinned out at him mockingly with sharp, fanged teeth from where they sat on the shelves behind the glass walls of the display cases, their large gaping eyes gazing at him mournfully. He didn't much like the look of them, the bone stripped of flesh and burned in some places, charred and crumbling. 

He swallowed his nausea at the sight of a child's skull, half the size of the others and delicate almost, the bone frangible and tender. The fangs were hardly grown, barely a few centimeters long. He tore his eyes away from it, moving along the shelf. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass, a faint outline—he looked like he'd just swallowed a spoonful of salt. 

He looked away again, focusing instead on the skulls. They'd returned to the Belmont Hold for one last preparation before they went to meet Aalis at last, and they'd all gone three different ways; Trevor to the bestiary, Sypha to the higher levels where the oldest books were, and Adrian to the display cases. He seemed to be drawn to the place as if something inside him was tethered to it, pulling him there inadvertently. 

He'd tried as hard as he could to stay away from these few shelves in particular, but he'd ended up there eventually, making faces at the skulls sitting there grinning grins full of fangs at him dustily. 

He was just walking away from the shelves when he stopped short, his eyes snagging on one particular skull on the bottom-most shelf. It was subtly different from the others, something about the shape of the fangs, the way it was molded, the curve of the jaw telling him it wasn't like the rest of the skulls on the shelves resting above. 

He knelt beside it, squinting at it through the glass. He reached out a hand, a finger meeting the cool pane of the display case that separated the shelf and his hand. His brows drew together as he gazed at it, trying to figure out what was different about it. It was around the same size as the rest, but everything vampiric about it seemed to be only... partially developed. 

No, not partially developed. Halfway developed. 

Only half vampire. And that meant its other half had been—

He exhaled sharply, withdrawing his hand abruptly, reeling backwards and recoiling so suddenly he nearly fell over. He steadied himself with an arm braced behind him, unable to tear his eyes away from the skull he now knew had once belonged to a dhampir like him. The only dhampir the Belmonts had ever slain, it seemed, from the way it appeared to be the only skull in the whole rack. 

And he knew for sure that two hundred years ago they had killed a dhampir in the woods, beneath the one ray of moonlight that pierced the forest like a silver blade driven through the shadows. He swallowed hard, leaning close to the glass. So this was all that remained of Aalis' lover. He meant nothing more than another spoil of battle, he thought bitterly, nothing more than another skull on their shelf. 

"Adrian? What the hell are you doing down there?"

He looked up, startled, just in time to see Trevor jump down from one of the ladders that led down from the higher levels, landing lightly on his feet a few yards away. He moved forward, frowning at Adrian as he approached, and Adrian noticed his fingers were smeared here and there with ink. 

"I..." He turned back to the shelf, gazing at the skull, feeling a sort of gruesome fascination about it all. "I think I've found Aalis' lover," he said slowly. 

"The fuck," he heard Trevor mutter under his breath, as if to himself. Then he cleared his throat and said, louder, "You found _what?"_ He walked closer, squinting at Adrian below him, a hand still pressed to the glass of the display case. 

Adrian scooted aside to allow Trevor to crouch next to him, then pointed dutifully at the skull. "Look," he said. 

Trevor frowned at the skull, then turned to Adrian, an eyebrow raised. "What exactly am I looking at? All I see is another skull."

"It's vaguely different," he explained. "See, the insinuation of the fangs and the orientation of the way they're attached to the jaw. If you look closer, it's less prominent than the others. Do you see it?" He pointed with a finger on the glass. 

"Yeah," Trevor said, squinting at the skull, arms wrapped around his knees as he knelt beside Adrian. "It's sort of... more human than the others."

"Exactly. Half-human, to be precise," Adrian said. 

Trevor glanced at him, apparently startled. "You mean it's—it was—a..."

"Dhampir," Adrian confirmed. "Yes. And by the looks of it, the only dhampir your family ever killed." He glanced at Trevor out of the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow and hoping he'd get the hint. 

He did; his eyes widened, and he stared at the skull as if it held every secret of the universe. "You found Aalis' lover," he said, echoing Adrian's earlier words. "So that's what you meant when you said that." He sighed, looking at the remains of her lover expressionlessly. "He's here, then. This is where they put him."

"Where else would they? Is there perhaps some sort of special torture crypt your ancestors reserved for the naughtiest of vampires where he should be instead?" He scoffed a little to himself, not giving Trevor time to retort indignantly, and murmured, "If the curse should come into effect... is that where I'll end up?"

"Don't," Trevor said shortly, not looking at him. "Don't say—"

"Or perhaps I'll be skinned and my skull will end up on this very rack." He tapped the glass. "Merely another skull among the countless vampires you've killed. Maybe they'll put me right here, beside Aalis' lover. They should make a special rack for the remains of dhampirs who have warmed the bed of the Belmonts over the years, it seems to be quite commonplace."

"Adrian," Trevor sighed. "Shut up. Don't be so fucking dramatic—you're not going to get skinned, and nobody's skull is going on any racks. Not on my watch." He stood, his jaw clenched. Then he glanced down with a brow quirked. "And you haven't warmed my bed—not yet, anyway."

Adrian looked up at him, and couldn't help the stupidly genuine smile that spread across his face at the words. "Am I to assume then that if this all ends well, you'll let me?"

Trevor hid his grin as he turned, affording Adrian an eyeful of the sharp sweep of his jawline. "Maybe," was all he said, and he could hear the smile in his voice. 

"It seems as though I have something to look forward to, then." Adrian stood as well, dusting off his coat with a sigh. "We should look for Sypha. Come."

Trevor fell into step beside him, hands in his pockets. "Save that kind of talk for the bed-warming," he said, and Adrian choked on a breath, elbowing Trevor hard in the ribs as his coughing subsided. Trevor laughed, rubbing the sore spot with his fingers as they walked along. "Too soon?" he asked.

"Entirely." Adrian shook his head, still grinning a little. "But not unwelcome, I suppose."

"Good," Trevor said, then suddenly caught his arm, stopping him. He turned to look at him, startled, feeling his brows draw together quizzically. They were standing in the shadow between two shelves, a hidden little nook, separate and apart from the rest of the open spaces of the library. 

"Tonight," said Trevor, his voice slightly rough, "if we can't do it—if we can't kill her—"

"Stop." Adrian stepped closer, standing directly in front of Trevor. The shadows cast his face artfully half in shadow and half in light, darkness pooling between the sharp contours of his face and turning one of his eyes pale gray and the other vivid sapphire. He was reminded suddenly of the sketch on his wall, the one with a jagged scar through Trevor's eye. He pushed it away. 

"We will survive this," he said, and on a sudden, unidentifiable impulse he reached out a hand, his fingers brushing against Trevor's cheek. "I know we will."

Trevor shut his eyes, and there was a sudden vulnerability on his face, his expression suddenly so open and afraid and full of pain that Adrian felt something in his chest twist excruciatingly. He'd never seen Trevor look so unguarded, so insecure. He exhaled, then opened his eyes, which latched onto Adrian as if he could drink in the sight of him, memorize his face.

"But if we don't," he began. "If we don't, then—"

"No. Don't think that way." He brushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, and it almost physically _hurt_ , to touch him like that, to allow himself to touch him like that—a sharp, sudden blade slipped between his ribs. Because how long had he ached for one last touch, one last kiss? 

"If something happens to me," Trevor insisted, his voice steady and even, his eyes unwavering as they bored into Adrian's own, "then I don't want to have spent the last few minutes of my life with you like you never meant anything more to me than just—God, I don't know, just anything less than you actually do."

"Trevor—"

He shook his head, and Adrian fell silent. He moved closer and closer, until his eyes were all Adrian could see, wide and blue and full of anguish and something else, something that made his heart beat just that much faster and his breath just that much shorter. "I suppose it's not really a secret," he said, his voice softer than soft, "but I want you to know anyway."

And before Adrian could even think of what to say in reply, Trevor had already closed the distance between them and kissed him. 

He felt something in him crack and break, and his arms went around Trevor automatically, holding him as tightly as he could. He kissed him back desperately, his whole body aching, aching with the memory of it and how every day had been agony without this. Everything fell away, everything that was and everything that would be, and everything became now, the feeling of Trevor there and close, his arms and his lips and his breath.

His fingers slid into Trevor's hair, his other arm still crushing him against his body, never wanting to let him go. He groaned roughly into Adrian's mouth, his own arms tightening around Adrian's waist as somehow they moved even closer, as if they were trying to fuse together into one entity, tear each other open and share their heartbeats, even if it would kill them both. 

He spun around and managed to slam Trevor's back against one of the shelves behind them, pinning him to its surface, their bodies pressing together chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Trevor gasped against his lips and Adrian seized the distraction, parting Trevor's lips with his own and thrusting his tongue into his mouth, tasting his want and desperation, a mirror of his own. 

_"Adrian,"_ Trevor groaned, his breath hot on Adrian's lips. The sound of his name in Trevor's mouth like that made a sharp, hot knife of desire skewer through him, and he shut his eyes, his fingers bunching in the fabric of Trevor's shirt, so tightly it nearly tore. Their kisses turned messy, driving, sloppy almost. There was nothing else, Adrian thought as his fingers raked down Trevor's chest, feeling his heart beating beneath them. Nothing else in all the world but this. 

Trevor pulled away for air, gasping, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wide and his lips swollen. He was breathing hard, his eyes darting all over Adrian's face as if he couldn't look at him enough. "Adrian," he said, "I—"

"Don't say it," he whispered, leaning his forehead against Trevor's, his eyes falling shut halfway. "Not now. Not tonight."

He felt Trevor's exhale on his lips. "Okay," he breathed. 

He tilted his head, letting his eyes close as he moved forward, their lips meeting again. It was slower this time, softer, a trade of breath and wordless promises. His fingers laced with Trevor's, the gesture intimate and calming in the way he knew every callus on his palm, the shape of his fingers and the way it was more familiar to him than anything else, the fit of their hands together. 

His other arm wrapped around Trevor's shoulders, and Trevor's own arms went around him and they sank into each other as inevitably as the sun sank below the horizon, and Adrian never wanted this moment to end, never wanted to leave the circle of the arms of the boy that had come to hold Adrian's whole existence in his hands along with another's. 

Because even as he held Trevor to him, and even as they kissed he knew that Trevor wasn't the only one he had given himself to. He was divided, it seemed, in more ways than one. Half of him was human and half of him was vampire; just as half of him belonged to Trevor and the other half belonged to Sypha. 

They separated after what felt like eons, and when they did he felt as if someone had taken away something vital, like an arm or a leg. Still he swallowed the words that burned at his lips and stepped away, dragging in a shaky breath—painfully aware that this could be the last time he would ever have Trevor like this, touch him like this and feel his strength against his own body. He felt a sharp hollow pang in his chest, and he looked away. 

"So if everything doesn't go like we hope," Trevor said quietly, "don't—close up. Don't say nothing. And... take care of her for me. Let her take care of you, too."

Adrian swallowed hard. "Please," he said, and his voice was barely a whisper, "please don't say that."

"If I don't, who will?" He twined a lock of Adrian's hair around his finger, almost absently. "And if everything goes well, then... then I guess we'll have the world."

"More than the world."

"Then we have a hell of a lot to fight for, don't we?" 

They looked at each other for a moment, saying nothing. Finally Adrian nodded, stepping back. "Then let's fight for it," he said, and he sounded firm, surer than he felt. 

The ghost of a smile curled Trevor's lips. "For the world—and then some," he said.

* * *

Clouds had gathered in the sky as the day had waned into night, and they lay overhead in a thick gray blanket, covering the stars and the moon. The sunlight that had shone that same day just a few hours ago had given way to flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder, and Adrian felt his skin heating up, crackling with the static charge that brimmed in the air. 

He realized he didn't mind as they left the manor quietly, slipping through the gap in the wall and into the forest. The air between them was oddly quiet as they walked, and so to fill it Adrian went over their plan again and again and again in his head, rehearsing it and taking it apart and putting it back together, folding and unfolding it until it wore at the edges. 

It was going to work. It had to. 

"Stop here," Trevor murmured, and they stopped, the trees rustling around them and swaying with the wind. His sword hovered beside him, unsheathed and glittering. He could hear the faint patter of wood rats and squirrels scurrying about in the undergrowth, the occasional hoot of owls and the musical chirp of crickets. It seemed, for all the world, like an ordinary night, just another evening in the forest where no creature ever slept. 

Sypha exhaled, and put a hand on both their elbows, squeezing hard. "I'll stay here," she whispered. "You two go ahead, I'll make sure to strike when you've weakened her to a certain degree. Remember the signal."

Trevor nodded, jaw set. Adrian felt his heart beating in his chest, a quick, thrumming rhythm. He could feel their apprehension and fear, their nerves fraying his own consciousness. He looked towards them both, feeling his throat close up, knowing that this one moment could change everything. 

"We can do this," he said, stepping in front of them so that they formed a small, tight knot. "We will. After tonight, everything will be..."

"Over," Sypha finished. "The way it should be."

Trevor closed his eyes a moment, then opened them again and nodded. "Okay," he said, and his voice was hard, rough. "Let's go."

Adrian shut his eyes, willing himself to change form. His back bent backwards almost double, his fingers clenching and curling into claws, his jaw cracking and elongating into a snout. He felt fur sprout from his skin, covering his body as he hit the ground in his wolf form. Suddenly everything leaped out at him in sharp focus, primarily in colors of red and blue, and he could sense everything around him in a two-mile radius—sights, smells, everything. He could hear Trevor and Sypha's heartbeats, their breath, every shift of their feet on the ground. 

Sypha stepped back, taking Trevor's hand as she did. She nodded at them both, eyes hard and flat and glittering, ready for battle. "Godspeed," she said softly, letting go of Trevor's hand. Their fingers lingered on each other for a few seconds before Trevor turned away, and together he and Adrian walked into the forest beyond. 

Everything around him was alive, pulsating. He could practically taste the air, feel everything around him magnified and almost hallucinatory. He felt the rain before it began, a crack of lightning making his fur stand on end just as the first drops fell from the sky, steadily pouring onto the canopy and trickling through gaps in the leaves. 

The ray of moonlight was silvered by rain, and it leaped out at Adrian like a stoplight as they neared it. He heard Trevor's heartbeat quicken, heard his breath hitch as he caught sight of it, the rain pouring through the one gap in the foliage and the rivulets of water cascading down from the sky and through it. 

They stopped a few feet away from it, Trevor tensing, fingers wrapping around the handle of the Morning Star. Adrian wondered idly how long they would have to wait for Aalis to sense their presences and emerge from wherever she slept during the day. 

He got his answer a moment later. 

He felt something nag at his senses, a strange buzzing filling his head. Assuming it was the storm he ignored it, until the buzzing turned into a high-pitched whine that made him cringe away from it. He heard a low growl escape his lips as he jerked his head, trying to dislodge it. It filled his head, making his whole body tingle unpleasantly. 

"Adrian?" Trevor hissed. "What's wrong? What is it?"

"Nothing's wrong," said a high, soft voice. "He merely sensed my presence."

She materialized out of thin air in front of them, a pale, slender figure, bare feet not quite touching the ground. She shimmered in and out of focus, sometimes a rotting corpse and sometimes a young, beautiful girl—as she had been ever since they had discovered who she was, who she had been before the magic in the forest and her own hatred had taken their toll on her spirit. 

The Belmont crest glinted on her shoulder, bright and gold for one second and torn apart the next. He wondered if her family had torn it off for her or if she had done it herself. Judging by the way it was torn with knives and how the skin beneath it was marred with slender scratches, his bet was on the former. 

She smiled at them just as she flickered into a graying, mangled specter, and it was terrible, a slash of blood and teeth. The rain slanted down all around her, not touching her but seeming to pass right through her. She seemed intangible and impenetrable, but he had seen her nearly choke Trevor to death and knew better. 

"I had been waiting for you to come back," she said, blinking huge blue eyes at them. "Yet you never did. I was lonely here, all alone with nobody to talk to." She tilted her head, her sheets of matted black hair falling over one shoulder. "Tell me, where is your other friend, the Speaker girl? The one with the magic."

"She's not here." Trevor's voice was curt, clipped. Adrian could taste his anger, his fear. He moved ever so slightly closer, brushing against his hand. He heard his heartbeat strengthen slightly, and his voice was louder, more confident, when he spoke again. 

"It's just us—the way you want it, isn't it, Aalis?"

"The way I want..." She seemed to be tasting the words, narrowing her eyes. "Yes," she said finally. "Yes, it's the way I want. Just you two. The dhampir and the Belmont. Like a fairy tale. Like my fairy tale."

There was a blinding flash of lightning, illuminating her smile as the rain fell harder, a loud crack of thunder splitting his ears. She drifted closer, solidifying into a young, pretty girl again as she did. She couldn't have been much older than Trevor was, Adrian thought distantly, and she could have been his sister—they had the same eyes, the same hair, the same tilt to their smiles and the same angle to their jaws. 

"You read my tale, didn't you?" she asked. "They called me _the weeping woman."_ Her lips twisted with momentary anger, blue eyes lighting like lamps with a sudden rage. "They put my story in a _book."_ She spat the word as if it were a curse. "As if to erase the memory of the world, as if they were ashamed of me and what I did to taint their legacy of purity."

She snarled, her hands clenching into long claws. "As if they were pure at all to begin with," she hissed. "As if anyone were ever pure in a world such as this. As if they should not be ashamed of killing their own daughter."

She turned her eyes to Trevor, latching onto him, glowing in a mad frenzy. "They'll do the same to you," she said. "They'll murder you and your lover and they'll hush it up and you'll be forgotten, just like I was forgotten. And then perhaps in a few hundred years you'll join me and we can have our revenge."

"Or," Trevor said, his voice icy cold, "we could kill you first, purge this forest of your madness and your bloodlust."

She shrieked with insane laughter, her skin rotting even as they watched, graying and turning leathery, matted with grave dirt and blood and old scars. "Try to kill me then, young one," she said, lifting her arms. "Let us see how much of your family's blood runs in your veins."

He saw another flash of white-hot lightning fork through the heavens, and then suddenly Trevor _moved._ There was no other way to describe it—he moved, so quickly that even to Adrian's eyes he was a mere blur. He drew his blade so swiftly it was as if it had leaped into his waiting hands, and then he swept it upwards, catching Aalis' hands with a sonorous clang. 

She moved back, snarling, and Trevor pressed his attack, sweeping the blade forward again and again and again. He saw her eyes narrow and then she redoubled her own speed, trying to match Trevor's. He feinted to the left and Adrian snatched the opening, leaping forward and pouncing on her exposed shoulder. 

She shrieked, her claws lashing out with inhuman speed, raking across his face. He felt his skin open, blood dripping into his eye. He heard himself snarl, and he felt the wound heal itself instantly, the pain vanishing. He moved again, knocking her to the ground as his teeth sank into her neck. 

Black blood spurted, filling his mouth in a bitter torrent. She made a wet choking sound, blood leaking from the ragged tear in her skin—an injury that surely would have killed any living creature. Yet she paid it no heed, opening her palm and slamming it directly into his chest, sending him sprawling. 

She slashed at Trevor, opening up a long, deep cut in his shoulder. Adrian saw blood fly from the tear in his skin, spattering to the ground like rubies. He could taste it in the air, like a heavy tang on his tongue. He cursed under his breath, doubling back, fingers pressed to the leaking wound. 

Aalis stood, chest heaving, her gown torn and her features livid. She glared at Trevor, black blood trickling from between her lips as she said, "Drop your weapons, boy."

Trevor only laughed, advancing and spinning his sword in his palm. "That won't work on me anymore, you undead bitch," he said, his voice half a snarl. "You'll have to try harder than that."

She narrowed her eyes, spitting blood out of her mouth as he spun towards her, slashing across her chest. She lurched backwards, coughing up black. Adrian moved in along with him, trapping her back against a tree, rendering her unable to move. Her eyes flicked to Trevor for half a moment—and Adrian sprang, jaws latching onto her shoulder. He jerked his head and heard a sickening yet satisfying _crack_ as the bone popped from its socket. She screeched, her claws raining shallow, ineffective blows onto his shoulder as she fought him off. 

He let her go and she groaned, her arm hanging limp by her side. Before she could flex it and heal it instantaneously, he heard a faint clink of metal and ducked, leaping backwards just as a tongue of silver lashed out from behind him. It wrapped around her useless arm, and Adrian saw it jerk tight—and then she screamed as the whip sliced cleanly through skin and rotted bone, severing her arm from her shoulder. 

"The Morning Star," she shrieked, her eyes wild. "You dare use the weapon I once held against me, child?"

Black blood dripped from the stump of her shoulder as she snarled, lurching forward even as the wound wept openly, ragged skin and severed bone. Adrian willed his sword to his side from the shadows and it spun through the air a moment later, a deadly fan of silver. It sliced cleanly through her other arm as she advanced, and a horrible, rending howl rent the air as blood sprayed from her other shoulder. 

"Sypha!" Trevor's voice nearly cracked with the strain, his eyes never leaving Aalis' writhing form. "Now!"

There was a sound like a rushing wind, and then—or so it seemed to Adrian—the whole world erupted. 

All he was conscious of was heat, horrible dry heat and wind and fire. Everything was gold and red, tongues of fire exploding outward and consuming everything in sight. It was blinding, deafening, the rawest display of power he had ever seen. Through it, unharmed, walked Sypha, a single hand raised in the air to control and reign the inferno that churned around them. 

He saw the fire twist unnaturally, rearing as a snake would before its charmer. Aalis' screams were lost under the ire of the flame as it struck her once, twice, thrice, coiling and uncoiling like a serpent. He could see her twisting and writhing under it, wailing and moaning and crying out. 

"Lied," she screamed, her hair lifting up around her face in a hypnotic crown. "You lied to me!"

"Yeah, well," Trevor said, breathing hard, blood still dripping steadily from the cut in his shoulder. "That's the way the world works."

Sypha's face was growing paler as the magic expended her energy, her breathing turning labored and heavy. "I can't—can't hold on for much longer," she gasped. "Trevor—"

"Make it stop!" Aalis screamed, her voice drowning Sypha's. "Please, the pain, the fire, make it stop, make it stop, _make it stop_..." Her voice rose into a horrible scream, going on and on, making his head ache with the force of it. 

Trevor stepped forward, his face closed and hard. "You want it to stop?"

She nodded, black tears dripping from her eyes. 

"Then tell us how to end this. Tell us how to kill you," he said. "Tell us, and we'll end your misery. You'll never have to feel this pain again."

She grit her teeth, staring at him through the curtain of fire that separated them. "You want to know why, Trevor Belmont?" she whispered. "Do you want to _know?"_

He swallowed, his fingers clenching into fists. "Yes."

She smiled. 

And then she lunged. 

She burst through the veil of fire even as it cracked her skin, charring it. There was a flash as she passed through it, and when she emerged, Adrian saw with dismay that her arms were whole and there again, and even as he watched, they reached for Trevor, her fingers encircling his arm and gripping so tightly it must have bruised. Trevor cried out, trying to shake off her grip, but she was too strong, her eyes bearing into his. 

"Trevor!" Sypha screamed, and the fire lessened, faltering—and Aalis seized the advantage, pulling Trevor close, her face split in a cold snarl. 

Adrian moved forward, panic overtaking him, thinking that _no, they were so close, not after so much, not now, not now._ He ran forward, as fast as his four legs could carry him, but he still wasn't fast enough. 

"You want to know," Aalis whispered, her other arm wrapping around him as a mother held her child, cradling him close to her. "Then I will show you everything."

There was a blinding flash of light, and a raw explosion of energy erupted from the spot where they had both been standing, blasting Adrian backwards. He crashed into Sypha and they both went sprawling, slamming against a tree, the wind knocked out of both of them. When he managed to struggle to his feet again, there was nothing left but the remnants of the fire, charred leaves and burned trees and the scent of smoke in the air. 

But Aalis—and Trevor—were gone. 

"No," Sypha whispered, crawling forward, blood spreading across her head where she had hit the ground. "No, no, Trevor, _Trevor_..." She pulled herself forward on her hands and knees, gasping, blood trickling down her chin from where her lip had split. She dragged herself forward until she reached the spot where he had been standing—where now there was nothing but a crater in the ground, the leaves singed and burned to crisps.

She screamed his name, over and over and over, as if it would bring him back, until her voice cracked and she coughed up blood. Adrian moved towards her, nudging at her face, silently willing her to stop. She did, eventually, once her voice gave out and nothing came out but a choked whisper.

Sypha started to cry, her shoulders shaking, defeat in every wracking shudder that rippled through her body. He held her as best as he could, hearing her cracked, dry sobs as she gripped his fur with shaking fingers, blood smearing on his snowy pelt. "Adrian," she whispered, shaking, trembling like a leaf in the wind, "he's gone. He's gone, and I don't know where he is, and I don't know if we can bring him back..."

He held her as she wept, and all around them the rain fell in glimmering droplets and the wind howled and the sky wept with her, from high up above.


	20. Pebbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pebbles:** _Endurance, stability, permanence and versatility, resilience and the ability to keep true to oneself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late, sorry! School started again and I was Not Ready for it.  
> Comments are absorbed with vigor and lots of squealing, so drop one for me will ya??
> 
> **CW: Attempted rape. Emphasis on attempted, but I'm warning you anyway; read at your own discretion.**

**_Sypha_ **

She could still smell smoke. 

It hung in the air, heavy and choking and burning the back of her throat whenever she took a breath. Even with her face turned away, she felt it stinging her eyes, making them water and burn. She hated the smell of it, that sharp hot scent that reminded her of running back to her caravan and seeing it go up in flames— _her_ flames—and knowing her parents were inside and that they were burning—

Her fingers twisted harder into Adrian's soft fur as the memory threatened to overwhelm her, feeling her lower lip wobble as she fought it down. She'd already spent the last half an hour crying. She didn't want to stay there forever, until there were no more tears left in her body. She exhaled shakily, shutting her eyes a moment. 

She pushed everything under, all her fear and anger and sadness. She had to think now, she had to think of how to bring him back. They had to get him back. He wasn't... gone. Not forever. She would know, somewhere in her bones, if he was. 

She slowly pulled away from Adrian, his furnace-like warmth and the soft fur that had brushed against her skin like feathers. He nuzzled at her cheek and she sniffled, a hand absentmindedly reaching behind his head to scratch at his ears. He blinked large, lamplike golden eyes at her, laying his massive head on her lap. 

"We have to get him back," she told the wolf. "We have to."

He made a low rumbling noise that she assumed was assent. He really was a large wolf, she thought, definitely larger than an average wolf was. His pelt was a bright, snowy white—but now it was matted with dirt and mud, and blood that streaked across his pelt in ragged, damp stripes of red and black. 

"Where do we go?" she asked. "Back to the village?"

He lifted his head, then shook it. He jerked his head towards the forest—in the direction of the Belmont manor. She felt her brows furrow. "The library?"

He dipped his head. 

She exhaled, then stood up. "Fine. I have to go back for a moment, though, to tell my grandfather. He... he'd be worried if I don't come back after dawn."

He only blinked at her, and she nodded at him. "You should change back now. We'll go back together."

He shut his eyes, his lithe body tensing as if he were bracing himself for a blow—and nothing happened. 

He opened his eyes, growling. His amber eyes were slits as his lips curled back, exposing his rows of long, deadly sharp teeth. He snorted as if something was irritating him, one of his ears twitching. The low growling grew louder, and he jerked back, opening his eyes again. He stared at Sypha, who stared back. 

"You—you can't change back?" she asked. 

He blinked—and then he snuffled, shaking his head. 

"Oh, God." She shut her eyes for a moment, putting her face in her hands. This was a litany of disasters one after the other. She simply breathed for a moment, wondering why and how everything went so wrong so fast. 

"Okay," she exhaled. "Okay. It's fine. Stay near the trees, I'll go in and be out in a minute."

Which was how, fifteen minutes later, she was walking briskly into the village again, her hands tucked into her sides as she walked with her head down against the rain. Adrian had positioned himself at the very edge of the trees, curled up on the ground, looking for all the world like a very fluffy white rug with eyes. 

She moved warily into the streets, which were clogged with water from all the rain, muddy streams running in rivulets down the sides of the houses. Flashes of lightning lit up the sky and the clouds that hung low in the air, turning their arching tips pearly silver. She glanced up, at the raindrops that slanted down like shimmering arrows towards her, cool against her face.

The road turned cobbled under her feet and she thought with a sudden, hollow feeling in her chest about Trevor, how he must have come this way from the forest every single night, walking this same road, moving towards the same cluster of lights permeating the air like golden mist on the horizon. The thought of him made her eyes sting, and she shoved it away, telling herself, over and over and over. 

_He's not gone. We're bringing him back. We will bring him back._

She said it in her mind, repeating it again and again like a prayer, something she could make true by memorizing the shape of the words in her head, the certainty she wished she felt. She remembered those last few minutes in the Belmont Hold, when he had found her in the shelves far above, a hand on her arm, his eyes wide and clear and earnest and so genuine that thinking about it now made her want to scream and rip her heart out of her chest if only it meant stopping the pain the thought brought with it. 

_"I've never told you this," he'd said, "but Aalis, she—she doesn't know about you. She hasn't even thought about you."_

_"What do you mean?" she'd asked, wondering what he was leading up to. "She surely knows about me, I even went into the forest alone that day when she spared me."_

_"Not that way," he had said._

She wiped the tears that threatened to spill from her lashes, willing the memory away. God, she was so stupid. She could have done something, done something to save him. And before they had left she hadn't even had the bravery or the courage to tell him that she—

Something caught at her shoulder and yanked and she gasped, her feet skidding in the rain that slicked the road. She stumbled, caught off guard, and then suddenly she couldn't feel the rain on her skin or dampening her hair. She stepped back, startled, and realized she was standing in an alleyway off the side road, a small dry one paved with uneven stones. 

She realized belatedly that someone had pulled her into the alley, and blinked the rainwater and tears from her eyes, peering into the alley—and her heart missed a beat.

"What—what do you want?" she asked, taking a step back towards the mouth of the alley on instinct. "I'm not in the mood to deal with you."

The coldly familiar face of the archdeacon swam into view, and all she could think was, _No, not now. Any time but now._ He said nothing, and for some reason his silence put her on edge. There was something different about him—the too-prominent gleam in his eyes, the flush on his cheeks despite the rain outside, the way he wasn't standing entirely straight. 

_Fabulous. He's drunk._

"Right," she said uncertainly, half-turning away from him. "I'll just be on my way, then." She moved away towards the rain, desperate to get away. There was already too much to deal with—Trevor, Aalis, her family, Adrian. She couldn't afford to deal with this now. Especially now. 

"Wait," he said, grabbing her arm and spinning her around. She jerked back, yanking her arm away, and he teetered slightly, off-balance. His voice was slurred, and his breath reeked of alcohol. She felt her lips twist as she leaned back, stumbling a few steps backward. 

"Let go of me," she snapped, putting a hand against the brick wall of the alley. It was cold and damp to the touch, rough against her skin. She dug her fingers into it, the pain grounding her, clearing her head a little. 

"Been—been meaning to catch you for... for days," he said, stumbling towards her again. "But you've always been with the"—he gestured—"that other one. The golden one." His eyes, unfocused and hazy, found hers. "You're... you're fucking him, aren't you?"

She leaned away from him again, her heartbeat quickening. "No."

"Liar." He sneered at her, and suddenly she became aware of the fact that he wasn't wearing his robes; he'd eschewed them for simple village clothing, a loose shirt and tough trousers held up with braces. Without the robes he looked like who he really was—merely another young man among the rest, nothing different about him. Just another boy who leered at girls and groped them in bars and drank until their whole body reeked. 

"I'm not lying," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. In control, the deacon was intimidating, frightening almost. Out of control, he was erratic, unpredictable, and she knew that he was more dangerous than she let on. The beginnings of fear were beginning to trickle into her blood, now that the entirety of the situation had caught up with her, her earlier sadness and fear about Trevor having faded. 

"I see—the way you look at him," he slurred. "Like he hung the fucking moon—"

"You're drunk," she said, trying and failing not to sound disgusted. "Go home, archdeacon."

"Not wearing those damned robes," he said, stumbling forward another few steps. "I'm no deacon without those robes. I don't have to care about sin or any of that fucking drivel without that goddamned thing. They say wearing them makes it better, makes you better. But it makes you worse. All the Bishop's stupid ideas about God and repentance and absolution, it's all—all shit. It's not real."

"You don't... you don't believe in God?" she asked, feeling her eyebrows draw together. "But you... you're..."

"Oh, God might exist," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "He just—doesn't care. Or maybe I just don't care. Might be going to hell, who cares? Definitely not me."

She took a step back, towards the rain, but he didn't seem to notice. "I've seen people, people who come begging for forgiveness, fall at my feet and tell me everything. Crying, screaming, asking if God will forgive all the shit they've done in their lives—murder, lies, rape. And you know what I tell every single one of those deluded fools?"

"What?" Her voice was hardly above a whisper.

"I tell them they're going to heaven." He threw back his head and laughed, and it rang in the alleyway, deafening and even a little insane to her ears. "And they—they believe me. They leave the church thinking they actually will. But if there's one thing I've learned from wearing those deacon's robes is that no matter how good you are, no matter what you've done or what you haven't done, you're going to hell. We all are. Every"—he lurched forward a step—"single"—another step—"one of us." He was standing right in front of her now, so tall that his shadow on the wall consumed her own. 

She took another step back and this time he caught it, his eyes flicking towards the mouth of the alley a few paces away. "You hate me, don't you?" he asked, cocking his head to the side. She eyed him warily, fingers still digging into the stone of the wall. 

"Yes," she said honestly, finally. "I do hate you."

"Well, good." He leaned closer, and this time her pride forced her not to step back again. His breath was hot and stank of spirits, and she fought down her nausea. "Because I hate you too."

He reached out a hand, settling it on the wall beside her head—almost as if to cage her against it and him. Another little shock of fear traveled down her spine and she forced her breathing to slow, not wanting to show how much he unsettled her. 

"Every time we cross paths you humiliate me and you get off of it, don't you?" He was so close now that she could see that his eyes were the color of storm clouds, darker than they should have been. "You like putting me in my place."

"You deserve it," she said before she could stop herself. "If I don't nobody will, and then you'll continue doing what you always do, what you think is all right—abusing us and acting like you know better."

"I suppose," he said after a short pause. "But what's the point of being a deacon if you can't use the power it brings with it? A favor for a favor, that's how it works."

"Us giving you what you want because you threaten us is not a favor," she snapped. "It's forced compliance. Maybe all of us are going to hell, deacon, but there's a special place there right beside the devil for people like you."

"Maybe." He grinned at her. "But if I am, then I might as well have my fun before I get there, shouldn't I?"

Her instincts won over and she moved to take another step back and get out of that alley as quickly as possible—when he reached out, faster than she would have thought possible in his inebriated state, slamming her against the wall. She gasped, her shoulder colliding with the stone with a jarring impact. The pain briefly distracted her, and he crowded her against the stone, trapping her. 

"You're drunk," she said again, pressing herself against the surface of the wall behind her, her heart slamming in her chest. "You don't know what you're—"

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing," he said, teeth bared. He leaned closer, and she turned her head away, face twisting with disgust as his breath ghosted over her cheek, warm and making revulsion churn in her stomach. A second later she felt his lips on her skin, just a faint brush—but she felt rage like a white-hot whip crack inside her, and she shoved him away, hard, her elbow digging into his ribs. 

"Don't," she bit out, feeling her hands shaking. She curled them into fists. "Don't touch me."

"I'll do what I want with you, girl," he snapped back, shoving her against the wall again. Her back slammed against it, hard, and a gasp tore from her throat, half pain and half fear. He pinned her against its surface, stone digging into her back and his flushed heat pressing against her front. His fingers wrapped around her wrists, pinioning them. 

He was strong—stronger than she had thought. She struggled, fear and panic closing her throat up. She dragged in a lungful of air to scream for help, but when she parted her lips, all that came out was a strangled gasp. She was trapped here, too far from help, pinned and helpless. And he—he was going to—

"Stay still," he snarled, transferring her wrists to a single-handed grip and pulling her arms above her head, "and this will be quick, little girl."

She was crying now—she couldn't help it, the reality of the situation making a horrible sense of helplessness crash over her. It felt as though someone were drawing out her sobs with a hook underneath her ribs, pain and fear and anger being yanked out with each wrack of her body. _Adrian,_ she thought, still struggling against his grip. _Help me._

He fumbled for the hem of her robes, leaning down, and she brought her leg up with a sudden jerk, slamming her knee between his legs. He grunted with pain, his grip loosening briefly, and she drew in a breath, shoving him away with her shoulder. 

"Adrian!" she screamed, and now she found her voice, even though it cracked in the middle. "Adrian, help me!"

"Shut up," he hissed, leaning up with a sudden, quick motion. She heard a loud rip, and then her robes tore up the seam, still gripped between his fingers. His grip on her arms loosened even further, and she twisted away, tearing her wrists from his hand. She shoved him aside with her shoulders, her wrists chafed from his grip, breaking free. 

Now that the immediate threat of his intention was gone, she felt it at last—liquid rage, turning the blood in her veins to fire and making her hands shake and her vision momentarily go red. He moved towards her again, and everything else was wiped from her mind except for the thought that this man was going to bleed for what he had tried to do. 

He bore down on her and she placed her palms flat against his chest and shoved, so hard her momentum made her slide backwards a little. He reeled away, his back hitting the alley wall—and then he screamed. 

Fire curled beneath his shirt, the place where her hands had met the fabric burning with golden flame. It wasn't enough, not to her—she wouldn't be satisfied until there was nothing left of him but a burning pillar of fire, a skeleton made of ash and bone and dust. She flicked a finger upward and the fire gushed across his skin, spreading greedy fingers over his chest and neck. 

He screamed again, and again, and again, and it was music to her ears. She stepped forward, a hand held out, and when he looked at her through the smoke and the flame and the smell of his own burning flesh, she saw fear. 

"Witch!" he cried out, clawing at his own burning skin. "You're a witch!"

"No," she said. 

She raised her arms to finish it, to kill this man who had tried to violate her as he had probably violated countless women, make him pay for what he'd done. He'd burn here, and he'd burn in hell too. 

Her fingers moved, the fire rearing to her command—and then something huge and lightning-quick and pale white slid in between her and the burning deacon, stopping her. She heard a soft growl, and saw amber eyes glimmering at her through the smoke. 

"Adrian," she said through gritted teeth. "Move aside."

He took a step towards her, and she raised a hand—she'd do it, even if Adrian was there, she would do it and she wouldn't care and she would laugh when he was dead. She would—

He tackled her to the ground and she cried out, struggling to get up beneath his solid mass, two hundred pounds of inhuman strength rendering her unable to move. She saw the fire falter, then the deacon twisted away with a cry, and then he ran, out of the alley and into the storm outside. 

"No!" she screamed, and she sounded crazed even to her own ears. "How could you?" she snarled, shoving at Adrian, who didn't budge. "He deserved it! He should have burned! He should have _let me kill him!"_

Her chest heaved, a sort of wild frenzy seizing her. Adrian growled into her ear, but it was soft, calming. He gently nudged her face with the tip of his nose, wiping away the tears she hadn't even realized were cascading down her face. She felt herself shaking, and she squeezed her eyes shut, breathing hard. 

He brushed his snout against her cheek, over and over until she calmed, the tears drying and the shaking subsiding. She shut her eyes, letting herself go limp, feeling a sort of horrible detachment from the world, feeling the rip in her robes and the place he'd touched her burning like a brand. 

She opened her eyes, her stomach roiling with nausea. She felt the past few minutes finally percolate the haze of shock in her head and breathed deeply, gritting her teeth. Now was not the time to break down. She had to get out of here.

"I have to leave here," she said, and she was surprised at how steady her voice was. "He saw my magic. I can't stay here any longer."

He made a soft rumbling sound, finally freeing her. She stood up, swaying on her feet. Adrian supported her, leaning against her legs as she stumbled out of the alleyway by his side, half-walking, half-running towards the church. If nothing else, she had to save her family. She couldn't let anything happen to them.

Adrian let out a soft snarl and she saw someone coming up the road towards her, and for a moment she tensed, seeing billowing white robes—and then she relaxed upon seeing the familiar, kind face of the bishop, rain dampening his gray hair. 

He reached her and Adrian and he seemed to be about to smile at her when his face blazed with alarm as he looked at her. "What happened?" he asked without preamble.

"I need to leave here, I'm sorry," she said, gasping. "But don't let them take my family away. Let them stay. Tell them it's not their fault."

"My dear, what are you—"

"There's no time," she said. "You'll find out any minute. But I'm sorry, I need to leave, and I can't come back. But spare my people, please. That's all I ask."

He opened his mouth, then nodded firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You have a purpose, I think," he said, "and God has a plan for you, I know it. Should you wish it, it will be done."

"Thank you," she exhaled. 

He bowed his head, and she turned and fled, just as the first of the townspeople arrived with torches and shouts and their hatred and fear blazing in the air. Her and Adrian were gone before they could even reach the Speaker caravan on the very edge of the road.

* * *

It wasn't until they were safe in the Belmont Hold—warm and dry and with silence pressing around them like a blanket wrapping her in her own thoughts and drowning her in everything she'd gone through in the past few hours—that she let herself break, sinking onto the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees. 

She started to weep, and she wept for Trevor and for her family and for what could have happened to her. She wept and wept and wept, her tears never ending, the sound of her sobs echoing in the library, and she felt like the whole world was crashing down around her, everything giving her way beneath her feet and tipping. 

She lost her footing and she fell, and she felt herself hit the bottom of the hollow, ragged chasm that had opened up inside her, her body breaking and her resolve shattering. She let herself cry, let herself break down and _feel something_ , even if it was hopelessness and fear and grief. 

She cried until her whole body ached, and then she kept crying. She felt something soft and warm press against her and then for the second time that night Adrian was there, letting her wrap her arms around him as she sobbed. She pressed her face into his fur and held him, knowing that he was the only thing holding her together. 

The sound of her raw grief echoed in the library as outside, even though she couldn't see it, the sun rose and turned the sky a brutal gold, and brought forth the new day.

* * *

She woke up surrounded by warmth. 

She opened her eyes, groggy, feeling her head ache. There was a sort of hollowness inside her, and she felt empty and breakable, like a bell made of glass. She felt something warm and soft encasing her, pressing against her on all sides. She could hear heavy breaths, and could feel the rise and fall of it against her chest. 

She had fallen asleep wrapped around Adrian, her hands buried in feet of thick, soft fur and her face pressed into his pelt. He was curled around her protectively, asleep as well, eyes closed and chest rising and falling steadily. She remembered the storm of tears, the sudden and overwhelming feeling of hopelessness, how he'd been there and how he was here now. 

She buried her face deeper into his neck, biting her lip. His head was pillowed protectively on her shoulder, his tail curled around her legs. He radiated warmth and comfort and safety and she was lost beneath it suddenly, so grateful for his being there and close. She remembered what her mother had once told her. _The world will give you a thousand reasons to walk away,_ she had said. _You must find someone who is your one reason to stay._

She felt Adrian stir beneath her, then he opened his eyes, blinking out at her sleepily. She gave him a watery smile, ruffling the fur above his ears. He made a soft, pleased sound, nuzzling into her neck. She put her arms around him, closing her eyes and simply breathing, carefully and slowly. With each breath the burden eased, became a little easier to bear. 

She pulled away after what felt like a hundred years, and he blinked at her, then decidedly licked her cheek. 

She smiled, scratching his ears, and he licked her other cheek, yipping like a happy dog. She laughed as he tackled her playfully, glowing golden eyes hovering above her in a sea of snowy fur. He was warm and solid, so real. She needed reality now, after everything that had happened. 

It felt good to laugh after so long, after so many tears. It made her feel like, no matter how bad things might have seemed, things might turn out all right after all. All she had to do was try. 

Her fingers twined into Adrian's fur, sinking through what felt like five solid feet of the stuff, and finally meeting smooth, velvety skin. She gave a tentative scratch and he shivered all over, a small, involuntary movement that vibrated through his whole body. She grinned to herself and dug her fingers into his sides, and he squirmed, letting out a little yelp. 

"Ooh, someone's ticklish," she laughed, and he whined, rolling over and gazing out at her with huge yellow eyes. She felt a little tug at her heart—he was so cute. Even if he was a massive wolf with fangs as long as her fingers, and even if he could probably rip her arm off if she wasn't careful. 

"I'd always wanted a dog," she mused, gently stroking his fur. He rumbled, placing his head on her lap. "My mother was allergic to them, though, so we never could. Later, after she died, my grandfather wanted to adopt a little stray puppy that we saw on the road, but... for some reason I just couldn't look at it. It reminded me too much of her."

He blinked at her, pressing his snout into her hand. She petted him absently, lost in thought, feeling a sort of strange detachment from it all. For some reason, the reality of everything had slipped away from her, and she felt oddly as though she were living in a dream. She stood up, swaying a little on her feet, and Adrian pressed himself against her legs, as if to keep her upright. 

She smiled down at him, and he blinked, his massive tail giving a little wag. 

"You know," she said as they walked into the shelves, looking for books, "my grandfather always says that crying makes you stronger, and that you never really feel better until after you've cried. I never agreed with him." She slid a thick tome from a shelf nearby, opening it. 

"But now I think I do," she sighed, hefting it under her arm and continuing her search. "We're going to get him back," she said, again. She couldn't count the number of times she'd said it or thought it in the last few hours. "We will."

Adrian snuffled, nudging at her leg. She had stitched up the rip in her robes, trying as hard as she could not to think about how or when it had happened, and they were uneven and jagged—she'd never been good at stitching or embroidery—but they'd done the job. She'd wanted to rip off all of it and burn the robes, but she knew she couldn't do that. 

She had found herself wishing that Trevor was there, time and time again. It wasn't as if she didn't appreciate Adrian's company—but they were so different, each giving her something she needed, and while Adrian could give her what he could, she craved Trevor's quiet solidity, the gravity of his touch, the warmth of his laugh. She wanted to hold him and never let go, tell him what she couldn't before they left. 

Before they left... 

_"What way?" she'd asked, feeling her heart begin to race. "Trevor, I don't—"_

_"It was never just Adrian," he had told her. "Maybe it was, once, but later, after... it wasn't just him anymore. And she doesn't know that. She thinks that it's only him. But it's you, too."_

_"But..." She had been reeling beneath it, this sudden confession. She had no idea what to say. "I don't..."_

_"Aalis didn't see you. The people didn't see you. But we did."_

She trailed her fingers along the spines of the books, lost in thought. Had that really only been a few hours ago? It felt like years to her, a thousand cold, long years with no sun and no wind. 

She sat at the table, a stack of books surrounding her. Adrian leaped lightly onto the surface of the table, padding across its surface towards her. He curled up, resting his head on the wood and gazing out at her with heavily lidded eyes. She opened one of the books about the Land Under the Hill, blinking down at it. The words seemed to be swimming in front of her eyes, blurry and indistinct. 

"Okay," she said, exhaling and closing her eyes a moment, then opening them again. "So Aalis is fae. That means it stands to reason that she took... took Trevor to—to some faerie realm, right?" God, it was so hard just to say his name aloud. 

Adrian blinked at her. 

"Right." She flipped a few pages. "There's so much lore about it, I can't even decide where to start," she sighed. "Okay. The path to faerie... you can never come back if you've eaten or drunk anything there... paths to the mortal world, deeper into faerie and the path to hell in a forked road..." She shut the book with a snap, picking up another. 

_"Time runs differently in faerie,"_ she read aloud. _"Oft it runs unnaturally fast, and then suddenly it is thicker and slower than syrup, sliding sweetly through your fingers as if it has no end. Men and women have spoken of sleeping endlessly under the stars and waking to see only a mere second has passed, or how a single step into the court of a faerie kingdom can cost you hundreds of years."_

Adrian made a soft rumbling sound, pushing one of the more slender books towards her with his snout. She took it, opening it at random. She glanced up at the wolf, suddenly remembering something. 

"Don't you have to go back home?" she asked. "Your parents—they'll worry."

He shook his head at her, growling a little. He jerked his head, one of his ears flicking. She had no idea what it meant, but it seemed to say, _No, I can stay._

"Well, all right then." She tentatively reached out a hand and he nipped at her lightly, his breath warm on her skin. She smiled, reaching under his head to scratch at his chin. His eyes closed halfway and he hummed, his head lolling. She giggled, her scratching growing more vigorous as he rolled over, huffing as she rubbed his soft underbelly. He was veritably drowning in fur, she thought as her fingers vanished beneath the fluffy coat. It was soft to the touch, and soothing against her skin.

"Who's the fluffiest boy," she laughed, and he made a little squeaking sound that she found absolutely adorable, glancing up at her. "Who's the fluffiest, cutest, smartest, sweetest little fluffy boy?"

He reached down and licked her hand, giving a happy yelp. Her other hand reached upwards, rubbing the top of his head. "Thank you for coming when I called," she said, her fingers stilling their scratching for a moment as she gazed into his unreadable golden eyes. "If you hadn't come, I think I... I think he might be dead by now if you hadn't come."

He huffed out a soft breath, padding forward on the table so that he could rest his head on her shoulder. She patted his head, lost in thought. He made a soft little sound in her ear, and she thought she could almost hear the question in the sound, even if she couldn't understand it. 

"No," she said, softly. "He... he didn't... go that far." Her voice dropped. "I stopped him."

He growled, and it was a low, rippling, dangerous sound. He drew back, and there was a dark glint in his eye, and for a second he looked like what he was—a predator, a ruthless creature bred by centuries of killer instinct, driven by primal needs. She shook her head, placing a soft hand on his jaw. 

"Don't," she said quietly. "It's not worth it. Not now. I already injured him enough, anyway. If I try to strike back, I won't be any better than he is. I'll use this as a lesson instead. I'll learn from it rather than look back and regret it."

He whined softly. 

"It's okay," she said, and for some reason as she said it she felt indescribably sad. "It's all right, Adrian. I'm fine."

He blinked, then sniffed, turning back around and sitting curled up on the tabletop. She smiled at him a little sadly, picking the book up again and opening it. "All right. So if he really is somewhere in faerie, then that means time could go... oddly. We need to get him back before it changes or shifts."

She read through the book again, frowning down at the details. "She has a wilder magic," she mused aloud. "It's not like normal faerie magic. He might not even be in faerie."

She shut the book, putting her face in her hands. "Adrian," she said into her fingers. "This isn't working. I don't think we can get anywhere with this."

He merely looked at her, and she stood up, placing the book down. "Can... can we bring him back, Adrian?"

He stood, moving to the edge of the table, his eyes level with hers. He ducked his head, blinking. She turned away, a hand curling into a fist on her chest. "Can we? What if... what if he—he's..."

He made a soft whining noise, shaking his head at her. He knelt, pushing one of the books toward her again, an adamant gleam in his tawny eyes. She could see his body set in a tense, stubborn line and then she swallowed, moving forward and picking up the book again in hands whose shaking she could barely hide.

"You're right," she said. "We can get him back. We can."

And she had said it enough times that she had actually started to believe it.

* * *

"We need to go talk to Trevor's family."

She said it as they rifled through one of the oldest books written in Latin and even Greek in some places, which she struggled with but managed to read passably. She had found herself gloomily wishing she could understand wolf on more than one occasion as she went through the books and Adrian sat beside her. 

He lifted his head presently from where he'd been dozing a bit next to her, and cocked his head to the side as if to say, _Why?_

She sighed, shutting the book. "We've been here more than a day. Surely his family has realized that he's gone missing by now. We need to tell them—and we need to tell them everything."

He stood, glancing at her expectantly. She stood as well, dusting off her robes, her fingers catching on the jagged stitches up the side. She brushed off the memories as if they were cobwebs, forcing herself not to think about it. She would give it closure, just—later. Not now. And preferably with someone who she could understand and actually converse with.

They moved towards the door together, and Sypha felt a sort of strange nervousness and an almost hysterical panic take hold of her—she had never met Trevor's parents before, or his sisters, and they didn't even know about his going into the forest every night and risking his life on his family's honor. She didn't feel too good about telling Trevor's secrets, but she knew it had to be done. 

"Okay," she said as they crept out of the Hold, emerging near Trevor's mother's rosebushes. It was day, perhaps midmorning, the sun nearly at its zenith in the bottle-glass sky. It threw the manor into sharp focus, drenching it in buttery warm light and making the stone glow. It was pretty, she thought, almost too pretty. She couldn't imagine living here. 

"We should come in from outside," she whispered to Adrian, who was nearly engulfed in the bushes—he'd be seen otherwise, his pelt was too bright and incongruous a white among all the greenery and flora bursting around the walls. "It'll seem strange otherwise."

Adrian growled, then slunk forward, skirting the wall. She followed, a careful eye out for any guards. Oddly enough the manor seemed quiet, no patrols in sight. It made her more than a little uneasy, and as they squeezed through the gap in the compound wall, she only felt it heighten. 

They took a roundabout route, walking through the forest, winding back around to the front of the manor where the imposing gates stood. There were guards here, but only one or two. She felt her eyebrows draw together as they moved towards the gates, wiping her sweaty palms on her robes. _It'll be easy,_ she told herself. _It's just Trevor's mother, and father, and sisters. All you have to do is tell them he's been risking his life and breaking the law every night, and now he's missing because of it._

She winced. Yes, this would be very easy. 

They drew up to the gates, and the guard standing there immediately levered his spear towards her chest, scowling. "What business have you here, Speaker?"

She looked pointedly down at the spear. "I need to speak to the Lady Belmont," she said, her voice strong and carrying, without an ounce of fear. Sometimes she admired her own acting skills. 

"Why?"

"That is between me and her," she said, allowing the tiniest bit of haughtiness to creep into her voice. "It's no business of yours, guard."

"And who's this... friend of yours?" He glanced down at Adrian, a brow raised, and Adrian growled at him. "An odd traveling companion for a Speaker."

"Perhaps," she admitted, "but it is urgent business, and I don't have time to waste here. Will you please let me in?"

"I can't just let anyone in here without good reason," he said, and she sighed with frustration, opening her mouth to argue, when—

"Who seeks entry, Marius?" 

The voice was strong, authoritative, regal almost. The guard lowered his spear and backed away, dropping a short bow to the woman who had just walked towards the gates, head held high and eyes suspicious. "M'lady Belmont," he said. "A Speaker and her... companion. She says she has urgent business with you."

Marie Belmont stepped up to the gates, her haughty dark eyes passing over both of them—lingering on Sypha's wayward hair and overbright, tired eyes and Adrian's matted fur. She raised an eyebrow, and the small movement, questioning and suspicious and not willing to give anything away—was all Trevor. He'd gotten the haughty arch of her eyebrows, the shape of her face, the set of her shoulders. 

"What urgent business might a Speaker girl have with a noble Lady?" she asked, and then Sypha saw it—she'd already discovered Trevor was missing. Her hands were trembling a little, her voice was sharp and cutting, her eyes masking panic and fear. She might have been an upright, dignified Lady, but underneath it all, she was still a worried mother. 

Sypha snatched the advantage, stepping closer. "I know what happened to your son," she said. 

Her face went entirely still, her lips parting. There was silence for almost ten full seconds, then she pressed her lips together and dropped the guard a tight nod. "Let them in," she said, and Sypha felt relief pulse through her, and her and Adrian followed Trevor's mother through the gates, stopping just inside. 

"Your names?" she asked, polite and dignified. Duty always came first for these high Houses, Sypha thought with a twinge of amusement. 

"This is... Alucard," she said, placing a hand on Adrian's head. "My name is Sypha Belnades." Then she paused, drew in a breath, and said, "I live in your library."

Marie Belmont's eyes widened, her mouth falling open. _"What?"_

"It's a very, very long story," Sypha said. "Shall we go inside?"

* * *

Despite her haughty, dignified and upright manner, Marie Belmont was a small woman. 

She was about as tall as Sypha was, but for some reason she seemed taller, dressed in a voluminous dress gathered tightly at her small waist. Her thick black hair was pulled up at the back of her head, spilling over her shoulders in perfect curls. She sat perfectly straight, ankles crossed and hands folded, but there was something about her that spoke of her ancestry of hunters—she seemed tense, as if prepared to spring into action at the slightest provocation, her eyes were sharp and assessing, and her gaze as penetrating as a panther's. 

Gabriel Belmont, on the other hand, was the picture of casualness. He was sitting beside his wife, legs crossed, a book in his lap. His blond hair was tousled, and there were a crooked pair of glasses perched on his nose. She could now see where Trevor got his height, though—he was tall, almost a solid foot taller than Sypha was. 

She had been talking for what felt like forever, starting from the very beginning. How Trevor left the house every night since he was fourteen with a whip and a sword, how he'd met Adrian—though she didn't mention him by name—and how they'd found Aalis' trail. How they had met Sypha, how they had all teamed up. How they'd found out about Aalis and how they'd begun working to kill her. She didn't mention the curse, not knowing how that would be taken to—and how when they had gone to meet Aalis, she had taken him away. 

"We came back to the library," she finished, "and... and we thought it was high time his parents should know what happened to him."

Neither Marie nor Gabriel moved or spoke when Sypha finished, but there was a raging torrent of emotion in his mother's eyes, worry and anger and sadness and fear. She blinked, and she bit her lip. 

"So... so he's... gone?" she asked finally, and her voice was shaking. "My son is gone?"

"Not entirely," Sypha said. "We... we will bring him back."

"But you said you don't know where he is," she insisted. "He could be—" She exhaled, looking away. "I don't know what to think," she said. "Every night, since he was fourteen? That's... eight years. Eight years he's... he's been..." 

She lifted a hand to her eyes, wiping them and taking a shaky breath, composing herself. Her husband took her hand, and she gave him a little smile before turning back to Sypha and Adrian, who were both looking down at the carpet. She cleared her throat, and they glanced back up.

"I must admit I'd never heard of an Aalis Belmont," she said. "She's not mentioned anywhere."

"They burned her off the family tree," Sypha said. "Since she fell in love with someone she couldn't. It was a crime, then—it still is."

"Yes, but... burying your own daughter alive for something as unchangeable as love..." She shook her head. "It's despicable. My family was very orthodox back in those days. I would like to say we have changed, but... sometimes a family stays alive by its traditions. Yet I cannot imagine loving my traditions and my family honor more than my children." She sighed. 

"Anyway," she went on, "we must get him back. No matter what. You said you've gotten into the Belmont Hold? You opened the door?"

Sypha glanced fleetingly at Adrian. "Er—yes."

"Good," she said decisively. "We will go down there at once and see what we can do."

"Marie, dear," said Gabriel Belmont hesitantly, "isn't it a bit... dangerous, going down there? The church doesn't know about it, and if they find out, they'll—"

"Damn the church," Marie said, thrusting her chin up, and Sypha felt a sudden rush of admiration for her. "I care about my son, not the Bishop. He can do whatever he wants, he can burn the whole house down for all I care. As long as I get my son back."

He smiled at her, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, just like Trevor's did. "That's my little huntress," he said, and she gave him a little sideways smile, then turned back to Sypha. "How do you get down there?" she asked. "Does the door open with magic...?"

At that precise moment, the door slammed open and six figures tumbled inside, all out of breath and practically brimming with outrage. "Mother!" said one of them, a girl about Trevor's age with long golden hair in two braids that fell till her hips. "You never let us go down there!"

Marie sighed, sitting back. "How long have the lot of you been listening in?"

"Oh, we heard everything," one of them said. It had always startled her, the resemblance between siblings—all of them had dark hair except for one, but every single one of them had brown eyes, and they all shared little common features; jawlines, the bow of their lips, the fall of their hair. She could see Trevor in almost all of them, and almost all of them in Trevor. 

"Then you'll know your brother is missing," Gabriel said, raising an eyebrow. "Which means you are also helping us get him back."

They all looked positively delighted, and Marie sighed. "This will either be an utter disaster," she said, "or a complete success."

"Knowing us, it'll be a healthy mix of both," said Gabriel standing and stretching, placing his book back down. "Shall we go break the law then?"

Marie sighed, standing as well. "Once we get that boy back," she said, "so help me, I will ground him until he's fifty."

Sypha hid a smile as she moved towards the door, and blushed as she felt six pairs of curious eyes on her. She'd always wanted to meet Trevor's sisters, but these were strange circumstances to say the least. 

"Um," she said, "hello."

"Are you Trevor's girlfriend?" asked the blonde one immediately. Sypha blushed again. "I—I don't really—"

"God, Chelsea, shut up," said another. "Look, now she's blushing."

Sypha blushed even harder. 

"Sorry," said the girl who'd come to Sypha's rescue. "She runs her mouth all the time." She stepped forward, smiling kindly. She looked to be the oldest, with a silver wedding band on her finger and her body tall and elegant. "Thanks for not getting Trevor killed in all the months you've known him," she said, and it startled a laugh out of Sypha. 

"You're welcome," she said. "It's a full-time job."

"I can only imagine," she said. "I imagine he's very reckless, isn't he?" She sounded a little sad, and Sypha felt the smile slip off her face. "I—yes, sometimes," she said. "But he... he holds back most of the time, he makes sure not to get himself into too much trouble."

"Oh?"

"It's because of you, I think," she ventured cautiously. 

She raised her eyebrows, startled, and Sypha placed a tentative hand on her arm. "He knows he has to come home to you," she said. "All of you. He keeps that in mind, and he does what he does."

"And does he do it well?"

Sypha smiled at her. "He's the best," she said. 

"Well, that's nice to hear," smiled his sister, and then she ducked her head and left the room and then it was just her and Adrian, standing in the ornate sitting room, the sounds of conversation barely reaching her ears. They were soft, murmuring voices, the sort of soft private conversation between family. She hung back, a hand brushing the top of Adrian's fuzzy head. 

"I think it'd be strange to tell them who you are," she murmured. "They know you, don't they?"

He bobbed his head. 

"Then we're definitely keeping your identity a secret," she said, sighing. "I don't want this to get any more complicated than it already is." 

The murmurs quieted, and Marie peered at her from around the door, her long dark hair falling over her shoulder. Sypha stepped forward, a little uncomfortable in the alien setting; she was more used to the outdoors, a small cramped living space. "Shall we begin searching?" she asked, trying not to let it show. 

"I think," Marie said, drawing closer, "you should perhaps get some rest first. It sounds as though you've had a long few days."

"Oh, no," said Sypha, feeling herself blush. "I'm fine, really."

"No, I insist," she said, sweeping up to Sypha and putting a motherly hand on her back. "If you've been under my roof all these days without any hospitality, I think it's time you received some. It's my pleasure."

The gesture was so kind and so familiar for some reason that she felt herself relax almost immediately beneath her touch. And then as if it was some sort of key that unlocked all the shoved-down emotion and suppressed feelings of the past few days, and she swayed on her feet, feeling an intense wave of fatigue crest over her. 

"All—all right," she said weakly. "Thank you."

"No, thank _you."_ She smiled softly. "For taking care of my son. I think he was in good hands all these months." 

"He's managed well on his own," Sypha said as she led her out of the room, Adrian tagging along at her heels. "He's... he's very brave. And kind in his own way."

"He hadn't been eating, or sleeping," she said as they walked up the steps. "For the past few weeks. I thought he was merely stressed from all the studying he'd been doing, but it seems I was mistaken." She sounded concerned, sad, worried. Suddenly Sypha was immensely grateful that Trevor had a mother as strong and as loving as Marie to come home to. He needed her, and she him. 

"Here you are." They stopped in front of a door, and she opened it. It was a plain room, as compared to the rest of the manor, she supposed, with a four-poster bed in the middle and a desk by the corner. But to Sypha, at that moment, there had never been anything more inviting. Marie swept into the room, pulling the thick curtains back, letting out a cloud of dust and letting in a strong, thick bar of sunlight into the room. 

"Your... friend can manage, I think," she said, glancing at Adrian. "There's a bathroom inside, and the water is hot if you need it."

"Thank you," Sypha said gratefully. Marie smiled, then moved away down the corridor, vanishing around the corner a few seconds later. Sypha and Adrian moved into the room, shutting the door behind them. Adrian immediately bounded up onto the bed, curling up. Sypha crawled in after him, sighing as she felt herself sink into the soft mattress.

"Well, that went better than I thought," she mumbled.

Adrian hummed. 

"Though I suppose... it could have been worse," she sighed, her eyes already slipping closed. She felt Adrian curl up closer to her, his tail wrapping around her and cocooning her in warmth. She drifted off within seconds, slipping beneath the surface of unconsciousness almost as soon as her eyes closed.

And just before she fell asleep, for the first time in a long, long time—Sypha dared to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one:  
> Me, writing this chapter: HE HAD IT COMING  
> HE HAD IT COMING  
> HE ONLY HAD HIMSELF TO BLAAAAAAAME  
> IF YOU'D HAVE BEEN THERE  
> IF YOU'D HAVE SEEN IT  
> I BETCHA YOU WOULD HAVE DONE THE SAME
> 
> Also I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Moms rock. And so do dads and older sisters. :')


	21. Oceans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Oceans:** _Formlessness, the unfathomable, chaos._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was easily one of my favorites to write, so I hope you all like it!!  
> Reviews are as usual, appreciated and squealed over. :)

**_Trevor_ **

_The wind changes direction, blowing from west to east. It passes between the trees as if the forest sighs out a nostalgic breath, bringing with it the scent of earth and rain and the world beyond the walls of my home. I can almost hear my name on the whisper of wind that curls towards me, beckoning me forward, calling me._

_I step forward and it surrounds me, the wind and the cool air, caressing my skin as a lover would, trailing soft, playful fingers down my spine and whispering in my ear. It makes a shiver trace up the base of my spine, and brings goosebumps to the surface of my skin. Dusk has fallen and passed, and has waned into night. The sky I can see above me is the color of raven's wings, a black so dark it shimmers and shifts, a thousand other colors in the folds of its inky feathers._

_The gap between the wall is a small one, but I fit through with ease. The moment my feet touch the ground on the other side I feel something lift from my shoulders, a weight I had not even known I was carrying. I may be proud of my name, but I cannot deny the burden my soul bears because of it._

_The forest is dark, silent. To any other, it might seem uninviting, sinister almost. But to me, it is a home away from home, a refuge, somewhere I might go to breathe, somewhere I do not have to act or wear a mask. Somewhere I can have the life I've always wanted for myself. A life without crosses and swords and whips and holy things that are heavier in my hands than they should be._

_The trees seem to part as I walk through them—I have walked the same path for weeks, months, years now. Every night, after the house goes silent, I find myself here, the earth under my feet and the trees and the sky above my head. I can trace every knot on every tree with my eyes closed._

_It slices through the dark suddenly, like a blade forged from heavy silver—a single beam of moonlight, slanting through one small gap in the trees that form an unbroken canopy above the forest floor. It's incongruous, inexplicable, shrouded in the same mystery and enigma that shrouds these trees. Something other, something unique._

_Just like he is._

_He's standing beneath the ray of moonlight, face tilted up towards the light. It silvers his already inhumanly pale skin, and now he seems to shimmer as if dusted with crushed diamonds, throwing off a thousand points of dazzling light. His eyes are closed, and his lips are curved in the faintest of smiles—he might be able to stand in the sun, but he's always loved the moon more._

_His eyes open as I approach, and he turns toward me. It takes my breath away every time, how beautiful he is, how every angle and every line that makes him up is perfect. Not for the first time I wonder how someone like him, someone so otherworldly and so ethereal and so detached from the mundane humanity of the world, could ever want me, love me. A human girl, with centuries' worth of hatred between our kind and his._

_"You came," he says, and his eyes are a bright, liquid silver in the moonlight, the paleness of it leaching away the bright green I know them to be. He holds out his arms and I go into them willingly, feeling the way we fold into one single being, one existence. I shut my eyes, inhaling the scent of him—fragrant pine needles and moonlight and nighttime._

_"Of course I came," I say. "I'll always come to you, even if my parents do not know of it or wish it."_

_"Your parents..." He draws away, and there's a troubled look on his face. "You still have not told them about us."_

_"How can I?" I step away, feeling a familiar anxiousness clutch at me like the talons of a great raptor, carrying me up far too high to jump to safety. "They will kill you if they find out about you and me."_

_He exhales, looking away from me suddenly. A thousand emotions cross his face, so quickly none are discernible. He is so much more human than the world thinks he is, his heart just as fragile and just as breakable, if not more so. He is certainly more human than most people I have met, despite the fact that he is half-vampire and not entirely human himself._

_Sometimes I think that his vampire half does more than give him immortality and permanent, porcelain youth. He loves more fiercely than anyone I have ever known, and when he does, he does not reach your heart as regular lovers do; he touches your soul. And when that love is torn, he might never heal fully—for there is a difference, between having your heart break and having your soul shatter._

_"I cannot do this anymore, Aalis." He turns away abruptly, twisting his hands together. His throat works, as if he desperately wants to say something but can't. "The running, the hiding, the lying... I don't want this life with you. I want to be able to love you in full, have you be a part of my life in both day and night. I've had enough trysting, sneaking away, only seeing you for a few hours. How can we live like this?"_

_"It is this or not having me at all." I swallow. "I cannot risk the wrath of my family. I would rather have you this way than see you dead."_

_"Is there no way your family can know?" he asks, turning toward me again. "They will never accept this, accept us—accept me? You are sure of this?"_

_"Yes," I say, feeling my brows draw together, "but I don't—"_

_"Then run away with me." He grabs my hands, fingers lacing with mine in a desperate, fervent grip. "Run away with me right now, Aalis. If your family will never see reason then I see no reason to stay here with them. We can finally have a life together—you've said you wanted it—and as long as you're tied to your family we can never have that."_

_I feel reality tipping, threatening to plunge me into an icy ocean of uncertainty where, below, the shipwrecked remains of my promises and my old mistakes float in trancelike chaos. My lips part, a thousand words crowding in my head—but I can't say any of them. I blink rapidly, looking away from him._

_"I—" I bite my lip. They warned me about this, of losing my way on a road I chose to walk alone. The unexpected hurdles and bumps and inclines that blind faith can lead you across, unseeing and with a pair of hands over your eyes. "I don't know," I say finally._

_He shakes his head. "Why?" His voice is disbelieving, blank. "Why don't you know? It's a simple choice, Aalis. It's either me of your family."_

_I flinch away from the words, freeing myself from his grip and stepping back, fear and panic and conflicting loyalties exploding in my chest. "How can I make that choice?" I ask, helpless, turning towards him. "How can you ask me to choose between you and my family?"_

_"You've already made that choice, Aalis." He steps toward me, the light sliding off his inky hair. It's so dark that it seems to absorb the moonlight, falling across his eyes as he moves in front of me, his jaw set in a heartbreakingly familiar expression—stubbornness, an unwillingness to back down. "You made it the day you first told me you loved me."_

_I gaze down at my hands, laced tightly together, still and unmoving. "I..."_

_I search inside myself, thinking of my family. My mother, who I love more than anything, with her wide, laughing gray eyes and dark red curls, hair I had always wished I had inherited. Even her eyes, or her tall, willowy build—something to remind myself I am my mother's daughter. But I got the Belmont eyes, bluer than pure flame, and thick dark hair like my father's._

_My father... he is not as kind as my mother. I have seen him raise a hand to her more than once, and have heard her quiet, muffled sobs through her bedroom door, see the dark purple bruises on her cheek or her arm, blooming on her brown skin like ugly, splotched flowers. He never shouts, though—he's too cold for that. He merely speaks, clipped and curt, words sharper than the blades he carries, blades he has never used._

_My brother, who takes after my father. Younger than me by four years but already married, with a soft, quiet wife that I have hardly ever heard speak. Her eyes are always trained downward, and her ever-present, tremulous smile always wavers when my brother looks at her or touches her. My sister, bold and carefree—though my father says careless—older than me but unmarried. Married to the hunt, she often says, wife of the blade and mother of the kill. She is rarely, if ever, at home. She lives away now, far away._

_If I choose them... what will I be going back to?_

_I will be leaving my mother alone. Alone with my father. I have stepped between them more than once, but I am shoved aside by my brother, dragged away, been hissed into my ear not to interfere in matters that do not concern me. And when I frivolously talk of taking my mother away, living with her somewhere else where my father cannot hurt her he gives me bruises of my own, fingers digging tightly into my ribs, my thighs, pinches and cuts where my parents cannot see._

_My mother never lifts a finger to defend herself. She allows my father to hurt her, talk to her as he pleases. And sometimes when I would go to her in tears, my sides covered with bruises she turns me away, too afraid. She was always too afraid._

_I cannot stay with them._

_I exhale, shutting my eyes for a moment. I open them again, and all thoughts of my family vanish, and all that is there now is him, his kindness that was a salve on all the pain, his laugh that healed my broken bones, his touch that made the stains on my skin recede. He is all I can love now._

_"Yes," I say._

_"Truly?" He takes my hands again and this time I grip his fingers just as tightly, feeling my throat close up as I make my choice. "Yes," I say again. "I cannot stay with them any longer—and I cannot risk your life for it. I love you, and I might have loved them once, but..." I swallow. "I choose you."_

_He smiles, and it's like a single ray of sunlight after eternal winter, warm and promising and with a whole world of hope in one single curve of his lips. His fingers tighten on mine, and then he draws me close and kisses me._

_I shut my eyes, allowing everything to vanish into the haze of happiness and hope that he's given me. It's familiar, the feeling of his cool lips molding to mine, his warm breath and the taste of him in my mouth. If this is what my future promises, endless days and nights of the feeling and taste of him, if this is what I am choosing—then I have no regrets._

_He draws away gently, fingers tracing my cheek. His eyes are an emerald ocean, bottomless and shifting and full of life, though it seems calm on the surface. They find my own, and they are so full of hope and wonder and love that I feel my heart break and heal, and break and heal._

_"Aalis," he says, and I never tire of hearing his voice saying my name, his lips shaping the letters—hugging the first syllable, sighing the rest. His hands are cool on my skin, his gaze heavy, his voice soft when he speaks again. "Aalis, I—"_

_One word. ___

_One word is all he can say._

_One word, before something bursts out of the bushes, dragging him away from me. I feel a gasp tear from my throat, and then I feel an iron grip on my arms, restraining me. I struggle in whoever has a hold on me—and then my blood goes cold._

_I would know these hands anywhere. They have hurt me more than anyone else has ever hurt me._

_"Hello, big sister," my brother's voice snarls in my ear._

* * *

Trevor opened his eyes. 

All he could see was white—surrounding him like a shroud or a veil, blanketing him in an endless, colorless expanse. He could feel the cut on his shoulder throbbing, the place where Aalis had gripped him burning like a brand. He felt oddly sluggish, as if he had been drugged; when he tried to sit up his head spun, and he could hardly move. 

He finally managed to struggle into a sitting position, trying as hard as he could not to vomit as he did. He looked around as best as he could through eyes that were stinging and a head that was aching, but all he could see was... well, nothing. 

"Where the fuck am I?"

Thankfully he could hear his own voice, oddly echoing around him even if there were no surfaces or walls in sight to bounce the sound back and forth. He felt a sudden wave of cold wash over him and huddled into his cloak, burying his face into the fur collar and shivering. There was nothing around him, nothing at all but his own thoughts. 

And there it was, finally—panic, fear, helplessness, breaking through the solid wall of shock that had briefly shielded him from it all. 

He drew his legs up to his chest, arms wrapping around them as he pressed his forehead to his knees, rocking back and forth. It all ran through his head, everything he couldn't do, everything he'd failed, every _one_ he'd failed. The weight of it all crushed him, and there was nobody, nothing there to see it, hear it. _Alone,_ said a voice in his mind, cruel and whispering. _Alone, alone, alone._

It was all too much suddenly—every single little thing he'd shoved down since this whole nightmare had begun. All the anger and fear and sadness, regret and hopeless defeat and longing. It was too much, and he had given it too little. 

He could feel himself shaking, feel the sobs that wracked his body, the way it felt like someone was twisting a knife into his ribs with every heaving breath he took. It felt horrible and freezing and lonely, and he thought he might never feel happiness again, not when everything around him was so bleak and cold. 

_Adrian, Sypha,_ he thought, feeling cold and small and alone, still shivering under his cloak. _Where are you?_

He curled in on himself tighter, wiping furiously at his eyes. He'd do everything he could to get out of wherever he was, do everything he could to get back to them. He couldn't afford to just sit here and pity himself. He had to go back. 

He dragged in a long, shuddering breath, opening his eyes, which felt red and puffy and horrible. He swallowed hard, braced himself, shut his eyes—and with the taste of blood in his mouth and the thought of Adrian and Sypha in his head, he stood up. 

Even if there was nothing around him but whiteness and nothingness he felt everything tilt sickeningly, nearly making him vomit again. He managed to get his feet underneath him, and then he doubled over, hands braced on his knees as he dragged in lungful after lungful of air. With each breath he felt the nausea recede and the pain ease, and he straightened at last, looking around. 

"Awake at last, I see."

He spun around, a little too quickly—his head spun again and he stumbled backwards, nothing around him providing balance. When he regained his footing and his vision was no longer tunneling, she came into focus, slowly.

She was walking toward him, barefoot as usual, her hair loose around her hips. She was young and whole, no illusions or magic making her image flicker into a rotting wraith anymore. She was just a girl, innocuous and young and innocent, wide-eyed and pretty. He realized with a sudden start that this was the first time he had seen her feet touch the ground. 

"Where am I? What is this place?" His fingers reached automatically towards his hip, where, to his utter relief, the Morning Star was still looped in neat coils, jangling merrily as his hand closed over the hilt, the handle molding perfectly to his palm. 

"Here. There. Nowhere. Outside. Inside. In between." Her face gave nothing away, and neither did her voice. "What does it matter?"

"Why did you bring me here?"

"You wanted to know," she said simply. "So I am showing you."

"Is that what that was? That... memory? In my head? That wasn't a dream?" He felt his mouth going dry, and licked his lips, his teeth catching on his bottom lip as he did. 

"No, it was no dream." She drew up to him finally, her face blank save for an unreadable glint in her eye. "It is one of my better-preserved memories, one I had for company as my body died and rotted while my mind was awake and screaming. One that aided the magic to settle in my blood."

He could still feel the fringes of her consciousness melding with his, lingering at the edge of his own mind. It had been less of a dream, less something he was witnessing as a outsider, and more of an out-of-body sort of experience for him. Like he had _become_ Aalis in those few minutes, let her take over his mind completely and seeing everything from her eyes, thinking her thoughts, dreaming her dreams. 

"So you never... died?" He moved back a step, a hand still tight around the handle of his whip. "Not really."

"Oh, I died." She smiled a little, and finally, there was a flicker of emotion—bitterness. "I am dead, Trevor Belmont. Do not doubt it. I just... I am not quite there yet, is all. Part of my soul has gone on, waiting on the other side of the river for the rest of me to move on. But the rest of me refused to move on. Not until I've had my revenge."

"My family doesn't even know who you are."

"Oh, they will." Her little smile widened. "They will."

"And what about the curse?" He swallowed, thinking with a sudden pang of those last few minutes with Adrian in the library, a rush of memories; hot breath, pale hair, a soft voice roughened with desire and agony in equal measure, the feeling of being pressed against the shelf with Adrian's body and being kissed and kissed—

"What of it?" She tilted her head a bit to the side and he had an uneasy feeling she could see every thought he was thinking. "It is coming full circle, as all things should."

"So I'm going to die for loving Adrian?" The words came out bitter, ironic, chased with derision. He felt his throat close up the moment they passed his lips—it was the first time he had ever said it aloud, that he loved Adrian. But he did. And he couldn't go back on it now. 

"I am not the caster of that curse," she said with a shrug. "But from what I am aware of, yes. Though it may not be the way I was killed, you will still meet the same sticky end for the same sticky crime." Her smile was a bare of her teeth. "If love can ever be a crime," she spat. "If our family did not thrive off disgusting ideals of purity and pollution. If they had any heart in their chests at all."

A small seed of doubt sowed itself in his mind as she said the words. He didn't voice it, however, keeping it to himself. He'd let it grow on its own, see if it bore fruit or not. 

"So you brought me here to show me... what, exactly?" he asked, and something made his fingers loosen around the whip—something told him that she wouldn't hurt him, not here. She merely gave another shrug, turning away. She looked a little like his mother, he thought, startled for a second. 

"I want you to _understand."_ She took in a deep breath. "I want you to know what you did to me. I want you to see what you've made me become."

"I haven't done anything," he said. "I didn't even know who you were until a few months ago. How could I have done anything?"

"Their blood runs in your veins," she said, waving a dismissive hand. Her nails were blunt, cut down to the quick. There were little scars peppered across her fingers and palm, nicks and cuts from weapons and battles. Warrior's hands. "That's good enough for me."

"Will killing me and my family really make you feel better?" He raised an eyebrow and she glanced at him coldly. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe not. But the Belmont family has reigned over the night for too long. It's time their traditions died with them."

"Fair enough." He sighed. "So where are we again?"

She sent him a little sideways smile. "You don't stop for a second, do you?"

"Nope. That's me." He bounced a little on the balls of his feet, feeling impatience crawl up his spine. "Your friendly local descendant who's trying to kill you."

"Oh, you can't kill me," she said. "Not here, anyway. Not in this realm."

"And this realm being...?"

"It's neither here nor there. Somewhere between. Somewhere other." She waved around, gesturing at their surroundings—blank, white, empty. "This is where my mind took me after my body died. I stayed here, tortured, feeling myself decay, felt the worms and the little ants eat away at my corpse." Her lips twisted. "It was torture. And when the magic took hold..." She shuddered. 

"When the magic took hold it was agony." Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "It felt like every pore of my body was being torn apart and then stitched back together. One small part of me was connected to my body, you see. I withered away, but here I was alive. Here I felt every spark of magic seep into my spirit."

She took a heaving breath. "I think I went mad," she said softly. "The pain, the energy, the memories... it drove me mad. For years and years, there was nothing but pain and pain and pain. And that night, the night I died... it replayed itself in my head, again and again and again. Every single time."

She stood straight, eyes hard. "It only made me surer that they all had to die. They had to understand. They never understood. None of them did. Not even Mama."

"You loved your family." He'd been in her head, seen what she had told herself, that she didn't love them anymore. But he'd seen her thoughts, read every single one of her memories and had seen it all, even the things she'd tried to hide. "No matter what you thought, you loved them."

"I—" She swallowed, blinking rapidly and looking away. "I don't—"

"You wanted to believe you made the right choice that night. You made things seem worse, didn't you? You tried to think you were doing the right thing by leaving them. They weren't as bad as you painted them to be in your head." It was slowly coming together now, the vividness of some of the memories and the blurriness of others. 

"They weren't perfect, but—nobody is. All those years you played this in your head you make it seem more real, the things you made up," he realized. "Your father—"

"Do not speak to me about my father!" She was upon him in a flash, a forearm pressed to his throat, slamming him against a surface that hadn't been behind him a second ago. He gasped, the wind knocked out of him. 

"You know nothing," she hissed, though her eyes were wide, cornered almost. "Do not speak to me about my family."

"It's true, though, isn't it?" He pressed his advantage, fingers wrapping around her wrist. Her skin was cool, and there was no pulse beneath the fragile skin, no blood flowing through the delicate blue-purple traceries of veins underneath his fingers. "Maybe he was an abusive prick, but he was never bad to you. You still loved him."

She grit her teeth, glaring at him. "That's a lie," she said. 

"And your brother—he was probably as much of a bastard as you paint him to be, but no one else was really all that bad, were they?" he asked, and she twitched almost imperceptibly, her grip on his throat loosening. There were tears in her eyes now. "They—they were—"

"They were your family," he said. "You loved them. You wanted an excuse to run away with your dhampir lover, and you made one. Maybe you weren't happy at home, maybe you hated how your father treated your mother and you hated how scared she was, and you hated your psychopath brother. But you would never have turned your back on them if you had the chance. Belmont blood flows too strong for that."

She snarled, and the tears were cascading down her face, spattering on the white ground between their feet. "I hate you," she sobbed, stepping back, releasing her brutal hold on him. He stood wearily, watching her weep. "I hate you!"

"Well, that makes two of us," he muttered. 

She wheeled around, glaring at him, and stepped forward, still crying. "You think they were better than I say?" she asked, slight shoulders shaking. "You think they deserve anything more merciful than death?" 

She placed two fingers at his temple, and his headache tripled beneath her touch. He gritted his teeth, fingers clenching into fists. "What are you—"

"You think my hatred is an illusion," she hissed, "then see for yourself what happened that night."

She closed her eyes, and the world went black.

* * *

_I thrash in my brother's grip, but he only laughs. "Nowhere to run now, sweet sister," he says. "Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide."_

_My fingers reach up, wrapping around his arm. It's futile, I know—he's too strong, his grip too brutal. "Let go of me," I scream. "Let go of me—"_

_"Shhh," he whispers in my ear, fingers digging into my ribs. "Aren't you going to watch the show, sweet sister? We're putting it up just for you."_

_I don't want to look—I know, deep in my bones, what I'm going to see—but I can't look away, my lips parting and panic, grief, fear, anger, sadness, all churning in my chest, turning my heart leaden. I see my father, the familiar cold glint of his blade, the_ Devil's Advocate _, a name he'd given it himself, and is proud of it—prouder of the blade than he is of me._

_My mother walks behind him, mouth set in a tight, flat line. Her eyes are dead and cold now, almost unfamiliar. There's no laughter in them, no happiness, nothing. They walk up to where a guard is holding him, and even his inhuman strength has been subdued, and he's limp in the guard's grip, his long dark hair falling over his face._

_"Get up, filth," snarls my father, kicking him down. I cry out, "Don't, please!", but what is one girl screaming against the wrath of centuries' worth of family pride? What is anything in the face of it? Even justice, even fairness and equity and peace? They all mean nothing now._

_He stands, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his lips. He looks at my father dead in the eye, saying nothing. His eyes blaze, twin emerald fires. My father smiles back, just barely a flash of teeth. "Well, he has a spine," he laughs. "Let's see how well he can manage when I slice it clean in half, hmm?"_

_"Father," I plead, still struggling in my brother's grip. "Father, please, see reason. I—it's my fault, I'm the one to blame, punish me, not him!"_

_My father doesn't spare me so much as a glance, and my brother's grip on me tightens bruisingly. "Shut your mouth, you little slut," he hisses. "You have no say in this, not anymore. You think you've been secretive, subtle, with all this running and lying? You think I haven't noticed you leaving the house every night, coming back stinking of your disgusting lover?" He laughs, his arms biting cruelly into mine. "If so, you're a bigger fool than I'd thought."_

_I sob, feeling the inevitability of what is going to happen. "Please," I say. "Please, don't."_

_"Hold him," my father says coldly, and the guards hold him up, blood still trickling from his chin. I scream his name, and he looks at me, one fleeting glance—but there are worlds in that single exchange, worlds of sorrow and what could have been, what was torn from us so brutally in a matter of moments. He smiles a slow, sad little smile, and I think I can actually feel my heart shatter in my chest, useless and dead._

_My father draws his blade._

_Tears course down my cheeks as I plead for mercy, my cries going unnoticed as my father raises his sword, eyes glinting. "You have tainted our sacred bloodline," he proclaims, as if he is a priest, and this bloody, brutal murder is his altar and the unfairness of it all is his God. The sword in his hands is his sermon. "You have corrupted our daughter, damned her with your own damned blood."_

_"Go to hell," he snarls in reply, and my father laughs again. "Not me, no," he says. "And not today."_

_And without warning, he brings the sword down._

_I part my lips—whether to scream or cry or say something, I do not know—but before I can make even a single sound there's a sickening crunch, the sound of bone being severed and skin being torn apart. Blood splatters everywhere, spraying onto me and my brother, covering my skin, a bright, inhuman red._

_No, is all I can think. No, this isn't real. This cannot be real._

_Behind me, my brother starts to laugh._

_"Torch the bastard," he says, releasing me at last, and just as they throw a blazing torch onto the grisly, bloody pulp that is all that remains of my only love, I feel something inside my mind snap._

_"I'll kill you!" I scream, and I snatch a knife from my brother's belt, lunging for my father. "I'll kill you!"_

_Something yanks me backwards and I stumble, a cry ripped from my throat. I feel the knife wrestled from my limp grip, and then something strikes me hard in the face. Blood fills my mouth as I look up into my father's face, cold and unforgiving and hard. His eyes glow, ice-blue, no emotion in them at all._

_"You disgrace us," he says, and he sounds disgusted, as if I am nothing more to him than a roach to be stepped on, squashed, moved out of the way. "You consort with filthy half-breed monsters. You are more them than you will ever be one of us."_

_"He was not the monster," I snarl, feeling my whole body shaking. "You are." I spit my mouthful of blood on his shoes, and he makes a sound of revulsion, stepping back and sweeping his robes out of the way. "Dirty bitch," he snaps. "You are no daughter of mine."_

_"What'll you do with her, father?" asks my brother, almost greedily. "Sell her? Whore her? Perhaps you can give her to the freak show, they love displaying the girls who fuck animals and beasts, it seems to appeal to some."_

_"I'd rather die," I say, my voice shaking. "I'd rather die than go anywhere you send me—"_

_"We cannot send her away. If word gets out that she consorted with a monster, then we'll all be disgraced," my father says, narrowing his eyes. "So I will tell you what we will do."_

_He steps toward me, eyes glinting cruelly. "We will put you to sleep in a pretty little wooden box like the doll you are," he says. "We will lower you into the ground, and we will cover you with earth. And we will go home, and we will live our lives and you..." He sets his jaw. "You will never have existed, Aalis Belmont. You will be erased from living memory. Your filthy practices will die with you, and our family will never again be tainted by your blood."_

_"No," I gasp, my voice thin and weak. "No, you—you can't—"_

_"There will be no more Aalis Belmont," he says. "You will never have been, and you will never be."_

_He steps up to me, grabbing my chin in a forceful grip that makes me cry out. "And know that I do this because I care for you as much as I am disgusted by you. Know that my actions are a mercy as much as they are a punishment. Bear this in mind while you die, daughter."_

_He steps away, eyes hard and flinty. This is not my father. This is someone else, some other cruel man. My father would spare me. My father would counsel mercy. My father would never hurt me. I do not know this man._

_"Bring a coffin," the man who had once been my father instructs one of the guards, voice sharp. "We have a body to bury."_

* * *

He lurched back into his body, gasping, on all fours on the ground. His head was spinning, the world around him smearing alarmingly into a blur of white. It took a moment for him to separate Aalis' consciousness from his own, took him a moment to realize that the tears running down his cheeks weren't his own, that the tangle of grief and madness and fury in his chest wasn't his. 

She was standing above him, impassive and still and cold as a statue carved from ice, watching him gasp and struggle for breath, tears still sliding down his face. Finally after what felt like an age her emotions drifted apart from his, the vast void of rage and grief that was her mind separating from his own. He felt it lift from his soul like a weight, leaving him breathless under the lightness of her absence. 

"Now look at me in the eyes," she said, "and tell me how you can think I ever loved them."

"You did," he said, still curled up on the ground, feeling a dull pain radiating through his knees where he'd fallen. He swallowed with difficulty, looking up at her. "Even at the last second you wanted to forgive him. You wanted to..." He trailed off, and even he was unsure as to why. He felt his brows furrow. 

She made a disgusted sound, oblivious to his sudden realization. "My father was a monster," she said. "He murdered my lover and then he murdered me—do you know how long it took for me to die, Trevor Belmont?"

Her eyes glowed, blazing with insane rage. "Nine days. I was alive for nine days, clawing at the coffin, screaming for help. I broke all my nails, broke my fingers from hitting the top for so many days, I tore out my own hair to try and make a rope to lever myself out. I was so hungry, but there was no food. I was so thirsty, but there was no water. It was all I could do not to bite off my own hands for something to sustain me, something to satiate it."

She exhaled shakily, looking away. "And then... then I died. I felt the life leave my body, I felt it leach away from me, everything I'd been. But I wanted to badly to stay behind, wanted so badly to make my family understand what they had done. And so I felt part of me go beyond, and part of me stayed behind, and then I came here."

"And then you started killing innocent people," he said, still lying on the ground, his whole body aching. "You murdered them just because you could."

"I was powerful," she snapped. "Finally, after years of being worthless and helpless and depending on other people and fearing everything, I made everyone fear me. It was power, pure and simple. It was my own heaven, my own sort of afterlife."

"You became fae," he said. "You're not just a wraith, or a specter."

"The forest was a wild one, brimming with dark magic," she said, slicing a hand through the air. "Faeries are not uncommon here. They lent their magic to the air, and my spirit absorbed it. I am not entirely one of them, not entirely what you think I am. My other half is my own magic, my own need for revenge."

She knelt down beside him, eyes wide and blue and full of simmering hatred. "I came back from the land of the dead, and I intend to take the Belmont family with me when I go back, finish what they started."

"You won't... stay here? You'll let yourself die?"

"The only thing keeping me here is my need for revenge," she said, shaking her head. "Once I have it, I can reunite with the rest of my soul. I can finally be whole again. I do not want to stay in this world, Trevor Belmont. Not when it has caused me so much suffering." 

"Is that the only way you can die fully? Otherwise, you're... indestructible?"

"Holy fire burns me," she admitted. "Your friend can attest to that, I believe. Her fire comes from her spirit, from her blood. She has a tentative bond with her magic, that girl. She does not entirely trust it. It charges the power to a spiritual form, which harms me. But no, it cannot kill me." She smiled. "Nothing can."

"Not even this?" He drew the Morning Star from his belt, holding it up. She flinched away from it, but she shook her head. "Do not—do not show me that weapon," she said. "Do not bring it before my eyes. Take it away, get it away, get that thing _away from me!"_ Her eyes were wide and full of anguish, and he tucked the whip back into his belt, his suspicions confirmed. 

"You can't stand things that remind you of your family," he said. "No wonder you hate me so much."

She laughed, and it was a bitter, humorless sound. "You are a relic of that family, child; their blood runs in your veins. You wear their crest on your chest, on your back. Of course I hate you."

"Yeah, but don't you sort of... I don't know, understand me? I fell in love with a dhampir and I'm going to die for it, just like you did. I guess you're not the only one who knows how it feels to be doing something wrong but doing what you want anyway."

"A crude way of saying you are following your heart and not your mind," she acknowledged. "And I suppose in that regard I'm not as alone as I thought... but I had to admit I was surprised when I first laid eyes on you. I recognized you immediately."

"My—"

"Your eyes," she finished for him. "Yes." She sighed. "And when you started to fall for Dracula's son, it was as they say—history, it repeats itself, does it not? The moment I felt you step on my grave, I felt it. The curse, beginning, latching onto you."

"If..." He struggled to say the words. "If it wasn't for the curse, would... would I have..."

"Fallen in love with him?" Her voice was ruthless, harder than diamonds. "Curses cannot change hearts, young one. Only guarantee the inevitable. You were doomed to love Adrian Tepes the moment you laid eyes on him, and no curses could change that. The curse merely ensured you would pay the price for giving him your heart. Him, and no one else."

Trevor started to laugh. 

It started off soft, a sort of incredulous spite bubbling up inside him. He saw Aalis' lips twist into an irritated snarl, and for some reason that only made him laugh harder, his whole body shaking with the force of it. It was half-mad with his own panic and a sort of helplessness, but it spilled over anyway, until his stomach ached and there were tears in his eyes. Still he kept laughing, and it sounded a little deranged, but it wasn't stopping. 

He gasped for breath, his eyes streaming, looking up at Aalis' scowling face, and she glared at him. "You find this funny, do you?" she asked. "You think this all to be a joke?"

"There's no—no curse," he wheezed, finally sobering. He wiped at his eyes, still giggling a little like an utter madman. "Not anymore."

"No curse?" She lifted a brow. "Can you hear yourself, boy?"

"Broke," he said, massaging his side and grinning. "It broke."

"What?" She stared at him as if he had just dropped from the moon. "Make some sense, child," she snapped. "What are you saying?"

"You think you know everything that happened," he said, shaking his head. "But you don't. The curse—it's real. Or it was, anyway. It's gone now. It's broken. _There is no more curse."_

Her brows drew together. "I don't understand."

"You think I'm in love with Adrian—only Adrian," he said. "That's the thing about these things, these old curses, they're cast to suit the majority. It says I'm doomed to die for falling for the wrong person. That was Adrian. The curse started, it came into effect that night. And it stayed intact, it held true—but that was before."

"Before what?"

"Before I fell in love with Sypha," he said. 

She stared at him, stricken into silence. Finally after minutes of merely gazing at him uncomprehendingly, she said, uncertainty thick in her voice. "What? The... the girl? You... you love her?"

"Yes," he said simply. 

"I... I thought she was..." 

"No one ever does," he said. "Everyone writes her off. Everyone looks right past her. But it's always her. She's always the answer, and everyone skips right by her without so much as looking at her. And what does the curse say? _To fall in love with the wrong person and pay the price._ There will be no price for loving both of them."

"A heart divided against itself cannot stand."

"Not divided," he said. "Diverged. I love her, I love him; he loves her, he loves me; she loves him, she loves me. It's simple, really, if you think about it."

She shook her head. "But... the curse..."

"Applies to one person. Not two. And loving Sypha wouldn't kill me. Not even if there was a curse against it. I felt it break the moment I fell in love with her. I just never knew it. But now I realized. Now, after you told me what it really meant. It's broken, Aalis. There's no more curse. It's over."

He saw her hands shake, clench into fists. "No," she said, her voice hardly a whisper. "You... you should... they'll kill you for loving them. Your family, they'll kill you—"

"No," he said. "They won't, and you know it. Face it, Aalis. I'm free."

She gritted her teeth. "When?" she ground out. "When did you feel it break?"

"The library," he said, and the memory rose up behind his eyes, so vivid that it was as if it happened yesterday and not weeks ago. He remembered spinning her around in his arms, the feeling of her warmth pressed against him, the sound of her laughter in his ears. He'd been there with her and he had thought, _She is my whole world._

Aalis was breathing hard, her eyes livid. "It's not fair," she said. "It's... not fair. You cannot commit the same crime I did—you cannot do it and not pay. You can't!"

"You don't need revenge," he said. "Our family, they've changed. They care now. They know, they understand. It's not like how you remember it anymore, it's been a long time. If you just let go, then we can both be at peace. You don't have to feel any of this bitterness ever again. Just—just let go."

She hissed, a tortured, agonized, bitter sound. "No," she whispered. "I have thirsted for revenge far too long to let go now. My spirit will rest only once my purpose it fulfilled."

She reached a hand out, settling her palm on his cheek. Her skin was cool, her touch soft. She tilted her head to the side, the anger melting slowly off her face, replaced by a sort of contemplative curiosity, her eyes wide and innocent almost. "These eyes," she said, softly. "My eyes."

He tried as hard as he could not to flinch, holding himself rigid and stiff as she touched him. "After me," she said, "nobody got my eyes. Not one of my brother's children. Not even your forefathers, or your mother, or your sisters. They called it the Belmont eyes, our eyes—blue eyes, a blue hotter than fire but colder than ice. But after me, none of them inherited them."

She leaned closer. "Not until you."

He could feel her breath on his face when she spoke again. "You got my eyes," she said. "The only Belmont with these eyes. The only Belmont since me who has them."

Her face twisted, hatred pooling in her eyes—his eyes. _Their_ eyes. "And I," she whispered, "will make sure that no one will have them ever again."

He didn't even have time to take in a breath before her nails bent into long, serrated claws, long and sharp and deadly. Before he could turn his face away she _moved_ , so quickly he could do nothing to stop her.

And then she rent his face open with her talons, slashing downward directly through his left eye.

* * *

_The coffin is plain, wooden, chipping away in places. Old. Ugly. Molding in places. Perfect for a traitor, a deserter, a disgrace._

_Perfect for me._

_My brother is holding me again, and sometime in the last few minutes tears have started rolling down my cheeks, and they will not stop no matter how much I try. I can't tear my eyes away from the gruesome remains of the only man I've ever loved, the way the fire has licked up what's left of him, leaving nothing behind but charred bone and torn muscle, blood drying on the ground._

_"You were always a the odd one," my brother is saying, his grip on me unyielding. "You never liked the weapons or the hunt, did you? I thought it was because you were scared, but it wasn't that, was it?"_

_I say nothing._

_"It was because all along, you've loved the night more than you ever loved our family," he goes on, ruthless. "And now you can join it forever, and we can be rid of your taint on our blood."_

_He ties my hands with thick rope, his fingers ungentle. I am limp, not resisting, simply watching my own family prepare to kill me. I feel hollow inside, as if someone has torn me open, emptied me and then has sewn me up again. Ragged at the seams, uneven, empty._

_They open the coffin, and it's damp inside, old and rotting. They've dug a hole—no, a grave—a few feet away, directly below the shaft of moonlight that penetrates the forest's eternal darkness. It's yards deep already, and I can scarcely see the bottom. Is that where I will be, where I will die?_

_"Get her inside," snaps my father, and my brother shoves me forward, so hard I nearly fall. As I pull myself upright, I feel him loop another length of rope around my ankles, binding them together loosely so I can walk, but not run. The tears are still running down my face, blurring everything. But still my vision latches onto a pair of gray eyes, wide and afraid. I sob, my wrists chafing in their prison._

_"Mama," I whisper. "Don't—don't let them do it. Please, counsel mercy. You know it's wrong. I know you think it's horrible. You wouldn't let them—you wouldn't let them kill me. Mama..."_

_She gazes back at me, her own eyes filling with tears—and then they flick to where my father is standing, looking at us coldly—and she closes her mouth, and she turns away from me._

_Betrayal, hatred, pity, all clash inside me. She is so afraid. She is so afraid that she would even watch me die. If she cares more for saving her own skin from my father's wrath, then she is as horrible as my father and my brother, if not more so. Perhaps she might even deserve my vengeance, if I can get it. No—when I can get it. I know I will make my family pay for this. I swear it on my dead lover's life that they will pay for this._

_So when my brother makes to push me forward again I step forward of my own volition, towards where the coffin lies, open and ready. I step inside, sit down, stretch my bound feet in front of me. I will die with dignity, if I do die tonight._

_My father kneels beside me, a slender blade in his hand. He reaches out, and it is all I can do not to flinch as it flashes—but he only slices through the sleeve of my dress, where the Belmont crest gleams, embroidered in gold thread on my left shoulder. The tip of the blade cuts the skin underneath, and I feel several scratches open up on my shoulder, slender and welling with blood. Crimson spots the white fabric when he draws away, his face closed and tight._

_"No longer are you of the name and House Belmont," he says. "No more are you my daughter."_

_He points the tip of the blade at my chest, forcing me to lie down. My back meets the bottom of the coffin and I feel my tears slide into my hair, making my eyes sting. I will have my revenge. I will make them understand. I will. I say it again and again in my mind. They have to understand._

_I will make them understand._

_I feel a shadow fall over me, and then my father is leaning over me again, eyes unfeeling and cruel, and gazes upon his daughter's face for the last time._

_"For this is the price you pay," he says softly, so softly I hardly hear it, "for loving a monster."_

_And that is the last thing I hear, his face is the last thing I see, before the coffin's lid slides atop me, the nails being hammered in and entombing me in eternal, unforgiving darkness forever._

_The darkness takes me, and I embrace it. It is mine now, and I belong to it._

_I close my eyes, and wait for death._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti everywhere* tHeY'rE aLL iN lOvE!!! But in really bad situations!!! Oh well. It's the thought that counts.
> 
> Also _'A heart divided against itself cannot stand'_ —a tweaked reference to Lincoln's "House Divided" speech in 1858. I'm a history buff and a patriot, don't look at me like that. 
> 
> Also I psyched y'all good with that curse didn't I? 😏


	22. Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Candles:** _The illumination of truth, lighting a pathway, a sudden light in the darkness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slides in awkwardly* Hi... I'm alive... sorry this is so fucking late what the fuck... please don't kill me...
> 
> Okay I'm running for school right now so I just gotta say this chapter is really fucking long. I don't know why this took so long, but it spilled out really fast last weekend, and I wasn't going to post till this Thursday, but then I finished and decided to fuck it, so here I am, two days early! Yay!  
> As compensation for being tardy, this is has ungodly amounts of Trephacard and also Belmont Family Shenanigans(tm), so enjoy and drop me a comment telling me what you think!! <3
> 
> **CW: Mild sexual content, not much. Not enough to warrant a rating change (yet 😏).**

**_Adrian_**

For the first time in almost two hundred years, the Belmont Hold was alive. Really _alive_ , not the way it had been when the three of them had been there, too wide open and too empty even with their voices echoing in the cavernous halls and between the towering shelves. Now it was full of voices, full of Belmont blood. Rightful. Proper. Fated, almost. As if the world were coming full circle. 

Only he and Sypha were a little apart, a little separate. They were standing at one of the shelves deeper into the maze of racks and cases, a ways away from the rest of the open spaces, where Trevor's family was. They were all sticking together rather than splitting up, something that tugged at him for some reason. He'd always been amazed by the way a big family all seemed like one entity, so tight-knit that nothing could separate them. 

But even so he could feel their fear, their sadness. It was like a weight on his own chest, faint but prickling just at the edge of his own consciousness. No matter how optimistic they tried to seem, they were still worried beyond words. Of course they would be; they were his family. 

Sypha was sitting cross-legged beside him, a book open in her lap. They had spent most of the previous day sleeping, and Adrian couldn't imagine how long it had been since Sypha had actually slept on a soft surface that wasn't moldy or rotting. She'd slept like the dead, and hadn't even opened her eyes until later that evening. 

Then they'd come down to the library. 

She'd opened the door, albeit rather guiltily, but neither Marie nor Gabriel had even seemed to notice. They'd been too busy gaping at everything, all the books and all the weapons and all the history that surrounded them, the history of their family. Marie hadn't said a word—she'd merely vanished into the shelves, tight-lipped and still-faced. 

"Is there anything interesting in this wing?" 

Both Sypha and Adrian looked up to see one of Trevor's sisters—Roxanne, he remembered vaguely—peering at them from the edge of the shelf, blinking large brown eyes at them. She moved into the wing, already clutching a rather impressive stack of books balanced on her other arm. Sypha looked up at her as she approached, blinking, apparently startled. 

"It's all the same, really," she said, lowering her eyes, almost bashfully. She'd been increasingly shy around Trevor's family, he'd noticed, almost as if she was worried what they might think of her, worried about making an impression. It was maddeningly endearing. 

"Huh." She stopped at the shelf right beside them, squinting at the titles. "The amount of information in this place is mad," she said after a while, carefully drawing a book out from its place on the shelf. "I mean, look at this— _'Forty-Nine Native Goblins, Romania'_ —what sort of hunter goes after goblins, for God's sake?"

"Er—" was all Sypha managed before Roxanne rolled her eyes stuffing the book back onto the shelf. "A shitty one, that's who," she said, answering her own question. "I hope to God Trevor has never had to hunt down a fucking goblin of all the things."

Sypha appeared to be fighting a smile. "I—I'm sure he hasn't," she said. "He only went after what threatened the people, and, well... goblins don't really pose that much of a threat to people usually."

"Well, good." She grinned at Sypha, and there was something about it that reminded Adrian of Trevor. She plunked herself down across from them, her eyes falling onto Adrian. 

"That's a pretty big dog," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Dog? Wolf?" 

"Wolf," confirmed Sypha. 

"You've got a pet wolf. That's... not strange at all." She reached out a tentative hand, and Adrian leaned forward, pushing his snout into her fingers. She smiled, scratching at his jaw. "He's cute. What did you say his name was again?"

Sypha swallowed. "Alucard."

"Well then, hello Alucard," she said, patting his head. He drew away just far enough to lick her wrist and she laughed. "Aren't you friendly," she giggled, then glanced up at Sypha. "Where'd you find him? It's not every day I see a Speaker with a pet wolf."

"He's not really a pet," Sypha said, settling a hand on his head and absently scratching at his ears. "More of a friend, really. And we... met in the woods."

"Strange, isn't it, how much happened there?" She sat back, wrapping her arms around her knees. She looked about Adrian's age, still young, her face unlined, her hair long and voluminous, in a thick braid that dropped off her shoulder. "I mean, there was all this that happened with our ancestor two hundred years ago, and now what's happening with Trevor."

She sighed. "He never said anything," she said softly. "Not even to mother. He never gave any of it away. We had no idea, until yesterday."

"He... knew what he wanted," Sypha said haltingly. "And telling you would mean casting that aside. He had— _has_ —a purpose. His sense of duty is too strong for that. He'd do anything for it."

"Even lie about it?"

"Especially lie about it."

She huffed out a humorless laugh, looking away. "I almost didn't believe you, the first time. I thought, _no way she's talking about Trevor._ And then you said something... you said something about how he blamed himself for what happened to that girl—how he felt like somehow he felt responsible—and then I knew you were really talking about my brother."

Sypha's fingers stilled on Adrian's head, and Roxanne went on with a sigh. "It just seems like something he would say, something he would think. He's such a bleeding heart." She laughed a little, but it was a sad sound. 

"I guess that's why it was him," she said quietly. "Him and not one of us, who decided to go and do what we're supposed to do. He broke all the rules, all the laws, just to help people. Just to honor our blood."

"And now you're doing the same for him," Sypha said, her voice soft. "That sort of completes the circle, doesn't it?"

It startled a laugh out of the other girl. "Yeah," she said, "I guess it does." She stood with another sigh, stretching, then glanced down at Sypha with the slightest of smiles tilting her lips, one that seemed sad and joyful all at once. 

"You're good for each other," she said after a pause. "He needs your caution to temper his recklessness, and you need his recklessness to temper your caution."

Sypha blushed, and she ran the pad of her thumb lightly over Adrian's ear. "Now if only there was someone else who's a mix of both to temper the two of us," she said quietly, and Adrian wondered if people could see a wolf blushing through its fur. He certainly hoped not. 

"Well, let me know if you find anyone like that," she said, and with a breezy smile she swept off, humming to herself. 

"It helps, doesn't it?" Sypha asked, shutting her eyes and leaning her head back against the shelf. "To have his family here."

He hummed his assent and she sighed, putting her arms around his neck. "I wish you were human."

He grunted.

"Dhampir."

He hummed.

She laughed. "Silly thing." She dropped a kiss on his head and he buried his face into her neck, feeling the scent of her wash over him, familiar and lulling. Her fingers twined into his fur and she laid her cheek against his pelt, and he felt her eyes close. "In all seriousness, I really do wish you were... you," she sighed. "I just... want to talk to you."

 _Me too._ He whined. 

He heard another soft exhale. "And I also want to kiss your stupid mouth."

He drew back, startled, and she raised an eyebrow. "I'm not kissing wolf-you. That's... not normal. Even if wolf-you is you. And why shouldn't I say it?" She appeared to be growing bolder by the second; there was a hectic flush on her cheeks, and a hard glint in her eye. 

"Damn that curse to hell," she said hotly. "I want to kiss you, and I want to get Trevor back so I can kiss him too. And then I want you to kiss him."

He stared at her.

She nodded with conviction. "That's exactly what I want. And I refuse to rest until I get what I want." She stood up, wobbling a little, and he quickly pressed himself to her legs, keeping her upright. She stumbled towards the shelves again, a hand clutching her robes so as not to trip. 

She really was a force of nature, he thought, amused, as she defiantly rifled through books, angrily muttering to herself as she did. He felt something in his chest swell, a strange, almost foreign emotion that choked him for a second. He didn't know exactly what it meant, but all he did know was that he realized that he would murder anyone who so much as looked at her the wrong way. 

"Right," she said, flipping a few more pages. "What happened has got to be a combination of her magic, the forest's magic and her own emotion. It should be easy to trace where she took him, but she doesn't use elemental magic like I do. I don't think she's taken him to faerie, since she's not fully one herself."

She shut the book, leaning against the shelf, worrying at her lower lip. Her eyes were unfocused, the way they got whenever she was thinking hard. "He... might be where she goes during the day," she said, and he could tell she was thinking out loud. "And we have no idea where that is. We may never find it."

She put the book onto the table again, sinking down into a chair, still chewing on her lip. "That place may very well be a figment of her imagination, a product of resurgence magic and the magic in the forest. It could only exist in a certain pocket of space and time, in her mind."

She stood up again, and shook her head. "There has to be books about that in here." And without waiting for Adrian to catch up she hurried away, down the nearest flight of steps and out of sight. 

He hastened after her, loping down the steps at her heels. She stopped abruptly on the landing below and he nearly crashed into her, quickly pulling himself up short. She was clutching at the railing, hanging back almost warily. Once he peeked out from behind her robes he knew why; the whole family was there, all eight of them, sitting together around one of the tables, a pile of books in front of them. 

Trevor's mother had her head on her husband's shoulder, and he had his arm around her, murmuring softly in her ear. There were tears on her face, and her eyes were closed. Their daughters were sitting around them, in a tight little knot of security and solace, quiet and still. 

Adrian felt immediately as if he was intruding on something private, something not meant to be seen by eyes that weren't Belmont eyes. Sypha appeared to be thinking along the same lines; she took a step back, nearly stepping on Adrian as she did. She turned quickly, moving up the steps again until she reached the next landing, whereupon she promptly slid to the ground, her back to one of the banister pillars with her legs drawn up to her chest. 

He moved over to her, wishing he could say something to her, wishing he could hold her the way he could if he was in his own body, take her in his arms, feel the strength and the fragility of her against him. God knew they needed it, both of them. He wondered, not for the first time, what sort of magic Aalis must have exuded to keep him trapped in this form. 

"This is killing them," she said, her voice muffled. "It's too much—they had no idea about any of it, and now it's come on them all at once. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe we shouldn't have said anything until we get him back—"

He nudged at her leg. _No,_ he tried to make her understand. _If we hadn't told them then they would know nothing, and then their worry would be worse hundredfold. At least now they know the truth._

She sniffled a little, wiping at her eyes. "He's lucky," she said quietly, "to have them. He's lucky he's got his family. They... he needs them."

He was silent, merely watching her. She glanced up with a sigh, then gave him a small, watery smile. "And I'm lucky I have you," she said, reaching out a hand. "I'd have gone mad days ago without you."

 _And I you._ He put his head on her lap, shutting his eyes, and she said nothing, merely placing a hand on his head and leaning her head against the pillar behind her. They sat in silence for a few minutes, merely soaking in each other's reality, the solidity of each other's presences. 

"We'll survive this," Sypha said finally, her voice so soft he nearly missed the words, dozing a little as he had been. "We'll survive this, together, and then none of this will matter anymore. We can leave this all behind." 

He knew that leaving it behind was impossible, that this had fractured the very roots of everything, a fracture that would never fully heal right, leaving its memory behind in occasional aches and pains that would never really go away, not really. 

And he knew she knew it too, but they didn't move, and neither of them said a word.

* * *

It had been three days since they'd come down to the library when it happened. 

They were all sitting by the bestiary, which was open on the pages that Trevor, Sypha and Adrian had filled in, the thin parchment covered in Trevor's neat, even writing and Adrian's occasional sketch. Of course his family had recognized his handwriting immediately, and they had been rifling through it ever since. 

Adrian had seen Marie occasionally gazing at the book, a hand trailing across the inked in words that lined the sheets, her eyes sad. She appeared to be the most affected by it all, though she showed it the least. She reminded him painfully of Trevor, little things that leaped out at him—the little line between her brows that appeared whenever she was concerned or worried, the way she tilted her head to the side just a bit whenever she asked a question, how the left corner of her lips went up first whenever she smiled.

Over the course of three days they had all familiarized themselves with the library, its vastness and its little secret nooks and the display cases and all the books. Slowly they had begun to disperse, and by the second day's evening they were all in different wings, each looking with increased fervor.

Adrian stayed with Sypha mostly, helping her organize the books she went through. Sometimes he drifted, moving into other wings, keeping one of the Belmonts company as they rifled through tomes and volumes and notebooks. They seemed remarkably all right with a wolf being in their library, and thankfully none of them seemed to recognize his eyes. 

Although he had caught Gabriel Belmont looking at him a little strangely once, his eyes narrowed a bit. It had looked as though he was trying to understand something, like Adrian was a question he was looking for the answer to. He'd glanced away after a while, but he'd been frowning. 

"So how exactly did she die?" one of Trevor's sisters was asking, peering into the bestiary. "She was... buried alive, right? How does that work? Did she suffocate, or die of lack of food and water, or something else? If we know how she died we could connect the cause of her death to—to however she wants to hurt Trevor and all of the rest of us."

"She was probably sealed in," Gabriel observed, leaning back. "I mean, they wouldn't want her to get out, would they? But then again, an unsealed coffin makes more sense if they buried her in the ground. The earth above would pack and hold the lid in place better than a seal can."

"You can't last more than a week without water," Sypha chimed in from where she was perched on a chair nearby, Adrian curled up at her feet. "So that's the most likely cause of death."

"What was wrong with our ancestors?" sighed one of his sisters, the only one with blonde hair. She looked to be the youngest, maybe a year or so older than Trevor. "Why would they bury one of their children alive just for loving someone she couldn't? Who did she fall in love with anyway?"

"A dhampir," said Sypha quietly. "She fell in love with a dhampir."

There was silence. 

"Oh," Marie said finally, and it was on a rushed exhale of breath. "So that's why." She sat down, a book in her lap. "It was something my family was very proud of, being conservative," she said after a pause. "They prided themselves in being the most orthodox, the most abiding by the rules they made for the rest of society. They liked to be that way, they liked being feared for what they laid out and what they did to those who didn't follow it."

She glanced up at all of them watching her, arrested. "It doesn't matter that they loved their daughter," she said. "The moment they found out about her and her lover, all that love turned to—revulsion, disgrace, a sort of need to get her stain off their names. All they cared about was their reputation as the purest family, the most pious family. They probably forgot all about her after she died. She meant nothing more to them than something to get rid of."

She shook her head, running a finger along the spine of the book she was holding. "I can understand why she turned feral, why she stayed behind. I can tell why she wants revenge."

"So where do you think her body is buried?" asked Gabriel after a pause. "That forest is hundreds of leagues wide."

"There's a place," Sypha said, clearing her throat. "It's not far from here. There's a small gap in the trees above, and it's the only light that comes into the forest by night. She's buried right below the gap."

"How... did she tell you she was buried there?" he asked. 

She swallowed, looking away. "When we first found out what she was, we discovered that the kind of fae she had become, they can't move far away from the place they're buried in. They frequent the earth they're buried underneath. Whenever we saw her, she was there. She never moved past it."

"So if we move her coffin, if we move her body... she'll leave?" asked Trevor's sister. "She can't come back here?"

"Not really," Sypha said. "She's got a sort of mental connection to Trevor because of their shared blood, and because of the curse—" She caught herself with a gasp, clapping her hands over her mouth immediately, but it was too late. 

All eight Belmonts turned to stare at her. "Curse?" Gabriel asked finally. 

Sypha shut her eyes for a second, cornered. "I—I don't think that's..." She put her face in her hands. "It's not good," she said finally, lifting her head. "I don't think it'd be a good idea to say anything about it—"

"Say it," said Marie, her voice soft. "It's okay, you can say it. We have to know."

Sypha slumped back into the chair and sighed. "When Aalis' parents killed her, they buried her, and after it was done they... they cursed the land where she was buried. They said that whoever walked there would, like she did, fall in love with someone they couldn't be with, and they would..." Her voice trailed off, uncertain. 

"Well?" Marie asked, her voice a bit sharp. Sypha raised her head, looking at Trevor's mother directly in the face as she said, "They would meet the same fate that she did. They would pay the same price. They'll be killed."

She shook her head, slowly. "But... Trevor, he hasn't..." She glanced around almost desperately, her eyes wide. "Has he?" She saw the look on Sypha's face, and something in her eyes seemed to crack and break. 

"I'm sorry," Sypha said, quietly. 

"Who is it?" Her eyes were closed, and she was holding herself very still. "Who did he fall in love with?" Her eyes opened, falling onto Sypha. "Is it... is it you?"

Sypha shook her head. "It can't be me—the curse says that he can't be with who he loves. He..." She glanced down at Adrian, biting her lip. _Should I?_ she mouthed. 

Adrian shook his head, ever so slightly. This was where he was willing to draw the line. If they found out about him and Trevor, then that was it. He had no idea how they would react. Maybe they wouldn't mind that he was a dhampir, but he was... well, he was a man. And as simple as that was compared to his blood, it mattered more sometimes. Another one of the countless ironies that the world had to offer for people like him.

"It was our other... companion," she said haltingly. "They were working together to find Aalis when my tribe came into the village."

"And this companion of yours," Gabriel said, leaning back in his chair so that the front legs lifted off the ground, "what's their name?"

Sypha swallowed. "I..."

And it was at that precise moment when it happened. 

It started off like a sort of itch beneath his skin, an itch that reminded him of how it felt whenever his body healed itself—the uncomfortable feeling of his skin shifting, cells regrowing and forming and merging and colliding. He shifted, trying to get rid of it, but it only got stronger, burrowing beneath his skin, spreading to his whole body. 

He felt a growl scrape past his throat, and he twitched again, attempting to dislodge the discomfort of it. It didn't diminish, and instead he heard a high-pitched whine, a buzz in his head that made pain smash into his skull. 

His cry of pain was turned to a low whine in his animal body's mouth, and he shook his head, twitching away from it. Sypha leaned down, putting a gentle hand on jaw. "Alucard?" She sounded concerned. "What's happening? What's wrong?"

Another growl was ripped from his throat, and he felt his lips curl back, the pain in his skull building. The itch under his fur was unbearable now, and it was so strong he felt like scratching his skin until he bled. He cringed away from Sypha's hand, jerking backwards when she tried to touch him. 

"Okay, no hands." She drew her fingers away, still peering at him concernedly. "What is it? Are you in pain?"

He felt the pressure in his head increase, until he was sure that he'd die from the pain of it. The buzzing in his ears drowned out all other sound, drowned out Sypha's concerned, soothing murmuring, drowning out everyone's questions, drowning out the sounds of life. 

For a moment the rending noise faltered, fading slightly—and for a second he thought he heard Trevor's voice in his mind, faint and distorted, like an echo from the bottom of a well. He shut his eyes, hanging onto the sound of it, as if it were a rope tossed to him as he drowned. _...die, for loving Adrian?_ he heard Trevor say. _...only in love with Adrian... only Adrian..._

He felt a sudden burst of energy, exploding in his mind, sending a shockwave of what felt like raw electricity through his veins. He saw a blinding flash of golden light, filling his vision suddenly. It rose up all around him, and for a split second he thought that this was it, that he'd died somehow, that maybe this was the curse finally coming into effect, maybe he would die like this and he'd never see Trevor again or feel his strength, never feel his lips against his own, never be able to tell him that he—

The pain withdrew as soon as it had come, the flash of gold receding until his vision returned to normal. The sudden ebbing of the pain and the noise in his head left him breathless almost, and he slumped back against the legs of the chair Sypha was sitting in, lifting a hand to brush away the tangle of blond hair that hung in his eyes. 

Wait. A hand? His hair?

He looked down at himself, then did a double take. 

He was in his human body again, sprawled on the ground, probably looking like a complete mess. But that didn't matter now; something was tugging at his consciousness, something that told him... something that was telling him that—

He heard a gasp, and looked up to see Marie Belmont gaping at him, eyes wide and hands over her mouth. _"Adrian Tepes?"_ she asked, aghast. 

He scrambled to his knees, still dragging his limp, mutinous hair out of his face. He turned, eyes falling on Sypha, who was staring at him with a look of shock identical to Marie's. He grabbed the edge of the chair to steady himself, gasping for breath. He swallowed hard, and his throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper. 

"Adrian?" she breathed, her eyes roving all over his face, "what... what happened—?"

His fingers curled into fists, his heart slamming in his chest, his pulse roaring in his ears like a soundless ocean as he spoke, the first word he'd said for three and half days, his voice cracked and hoarse from disuse. 

_"Trevor,"_ he said.

* * *

The forest flew by him, a green and black blur. 

They were moving through the undergrowth, dead leaves crunching beneath his boots, the night air cool on his skin. Sypha was next to him, hurrying to keep up with his long strides, and Marie was on his other side, gripping her skirts in her hands as she picked her way around the bushes and shrubs that littered the forest floor. She had insisted that everyone else stay in the library, then had firmly announced that she was going with Adrian and Sypha to see what had happened. 

They couldn't very well deny her, however, and the imperious glint in her eyes had told him that he didn't want to try. So they'd left, all three of them, half-running towards where they had last seen Trevor. Because something had happened, Adrian knew. He could feel it. 

There had been no time to explain his presence there, and Marie had appeared to understand; she'd merely pursed her lips and nodded at him, and had asked no questions. He had a feeling that she had guessed more than he let on, however. 

Dusk had fallen sometime in the last few hours, and the sky was a deep, fathomless indigo, the stars winking down at him like a billion pinpricks of ice glimmering from their perch among velvety darkness. The moon was a sliver of a crescent, a curved slice of silver that lit the leaves to liquid brightness. 

Finally after what felt like hours of stumbling and running, he saw a flash of bright silver ahead of him, slicing through the semidarkness. His breath jammed in his throat and he moved faster, straining towards it, needing to see what was there, because he knew that there was something there, he knew that something that had to do with Trevor could be waiting for them—

The ray of light slanted down directly ahead, moonlight filtering down from the sky through the leaves like a waterfall of molten silver. He put on a burst of speed, reaching the place Aalis was buried, skidding to a stop in front of the ray of light, out of breath. His heart was racing, his whole body tense as a taught, drawn bowstring. 

At first he saw nothing. 

Then as his eyes adjusted, his heart plummeting—he caught sight of a small flicker of movement at the edge of the light, stirring feebly. He saw rippling black, and then a flash of garish red. He stiffened all over. _Blood,_ he realized. 

And not just any blood—he could smell the scent of it, iron and heavy and noble and familiar. Horribly familiar. That same blood flowed in his veins.

He lurched forward, through the ray of moonlight and towards the figure lying at the side of it, falling to his knees. His hands reached out, and he hesitated, fingers curling in on themselves. 

"Adrian?" Sypha's voice called, and then she and Marie burst through the undergrowth, both out of breath. Sypha caught sight of Adrian, then her eyes slid to the figure lying beside him. He saw her eyes go wide—and then she surged forward as well, breathless as she slid to her knees beside him, staring down at the prone figure between them.

"Trevor," she whispered. 

Adrian steeled himself, then decisively took hold of Trevor's shoulder, turning him so that he was facing them. His eyes found his face—a thousand emotions exploded inside him as he recognized him—and his breath caught in his throat when he saw the mask of blood across the left side of his face, so dark in the moonlight it was nearly black. 

Marie hung back, warily, still standing, as Adrian gently slid a hand to the back of Trevor's head, fingers tangling in his hair as he kept him upright. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. Sypha slid a hand beneath his shirt, pressing her fingers to his chest, leaning down and waiting.

A second later she drew away and nodded at Adrian, who felt relief slam into him so forcefully he nearly broke down right there, tears springing to his eyes. He mastered himself with a shaky breath, shutting his eyes for a second and breathing a silent thank you to whatever force had kept him alive. 

"He's hurt," Sypha said, and her eyes were swimming as well. She mopped at them with the edge of her sleeve, sniffling as she took a deep breath. She cleared her throat. "Look. His... his eye."

Adrian carefully turned Trevor's face, examining his left eye. Nausea gripped him when he saw the gash, slicing down right through his eye. His sketch flashed behind his eyes, in the back of his mind. So Aalis had warned him, though he hadn't realized it then. He swallowed it down, instead carefully wiping at the blood that covered his face. The wound looked days old, inflamed and terrible and ragged. 

"It's infected," he said shortly. "We have to get it treated, or he could lose his eye."

"What will you do?" whispered Marie from behind him, and he bit his lip, making up his mind. There was nothing else that could be done; if the wound was just a few days fresher he could have treated it with herbs, but now... now it was nearly beyond saving. Now there was only one thing left to do. 

He lifted a hand to his mouth, willing his fangs to extend fully. He heard Sypha's sharp intake of breath, Marie's wordless protest, and then he tore his wrist open with his teeth, feeling a quick, brief flash of pain before the blood began to flow. It was too bright, even in the darkness, and he could feel it beginning to heal already, the pulse of blood gushing from his wrist turning sluggish. 

Quickly, before it could heal over fully, he held his bleeding wrist over Trevor's face, allowing his blood to drip down onto the wound, the darker red of Trevor's blood mixing with Adrian's. It looked oddly, gruesomely beautiful, the shifting shades and the way it smeared in fans of crimson across Trevor's skin. 

"What... are you _doing?"_ Marie hissed, her voice nearly a snarl. He heard her move forward, and Sypha gestured for her to wait, her eyes fixed on the cut across Trevor's eye. It was closing slowly, the streaks of red beneath his skin—the beginnings of blood poisoning—slowly receding, the bruises around the wound fading. 

A minute later Sypha laced her fingers with his, drawing his hand back. "Enough," she said softly. "Or you'll lose too much blood."

He had already lost enough to feel slightly light-headed, but he said nothing, merely pulling his hand away, feeling the ragged wound heal itself. They turned back to Trevor, the gash on his face nearly fully closed already. Sypha exhaled, gently wiping off the blood smeared across his face with the edges of her sleeves, tenderly mopping it off, making sure not to disturb the cut as she did. 

"He'll be okay," he heard himself say as if from very far away. "If we just bandage it and treat it every few hours, he should—"

Trevor stirred, his lips parting, making a soft, pained sound. They all froze, waiting, Adrian hardly daring to look away from him, even for a second. A few moments later his eye—only his right eye—fluttered open, and after a while his vision seemed to come into focus. His eye landed onto Sypha, who was leaning right above him. 

"Sypha?" he asked. 

She let out a sob, and then without warning her hands curved around his face as she leaned down, kissing him full on the mouth. 

Trevor's arm wrapped around her waist as he held her to him, his eye falling shut as he kissed her back, pulling her closer. Neither of them seemed to care that Trevor was covered in blood, nor did Sypha seem to care that his mother was standing right behind them. 

She pulled away a minute later, and there was blood on her jaw. She was crying, silently, tears running down her cheeks. Trevor glanced at Adrian, and he raised an eyebrow—even bloodied and half-dead, he managed to crack the barest of teasing smiles, one that was achingly familiar, one that hit him like punch to the stomach. 

"Well, are you going to come here, or do I have to do all the work?" he asked, holding out a hand, and Adrian managed to choke out half a laugh, and then he was leaning down and Trevor was tilting his head up, and a second later they were kissing. 

His hands curved around Trevor's shoulders, careful and cautious, and his lips were chapped, bruised, and he tasted like blood and magic. But to Adrian, there had never been anything sweeter. It was soft, gentle almost, just a light press of lips that nevertheless made stars explode behind his closed eyes. 

He drew away after a short while, knowing that this wasn't the place, nor the time. The moment he did, Trevor's eye slid between Adrian and Sypha, and he said suddenly, "The curse broke."

Adrian and Sypha exchanged a confused glance. "What?" she asked. "It broke? When? What happened?"

His eye was beginning to slip closed. "It broke weeks ago," he muttered. "Library. Music box." He sighed. "I'm really fucking tired."

"What?" Adrian's head spun. "Music box? What are you—"

"Oh," Sypha said softly. _"Oh._ Oh my God."

"Yeah," Trevor agreed sleepily, his eye slipping closed. 

"What on earth are you talking about?" demanded Adrian, bewildered. "What music box? I don't understand what you're saying—"

"I'll tell you later," Sypha said, gently brushing Trevor's matted, bloody hair out of his eyes. "But it's... it's broken then? For sure?"

"For sure," Trevor said, his eye opening again. "It's over." His hands gripped Adrian's wrist, Sypha's shoulder. "We're free."

"I'm so glad you're all right," Sypha said tearfully, laying her head on his shoulder. "I'm so glad you came back." Adrian's arms wrapped around him as well and he buried his face into Trevor's other shoulder. "Me too," he said. 

"Of course I'd come back," he said, his arms coming around both of them, holding them tightly. "I'd never leave you two idiots, you wouldn't last a day on your own without me."

Sypha laughed weakly, and they all gripped each other like lifelines, as if letting go would mean unspeakable horror. Because, at that moment, it would. And as they all clung to each other at the edge of the light, Trevor looked up and saw his mother watching them, a wistful little smile on her face. 

He smiled at her a little over Adrian and Sypha's heads, glancing down at them before looking back at her. She said nothing, but merely nodded at him, then smiled back at him.

* * *

Trevor slipped back into unconsciousness halfway to the manor, his head lolling onto Adrian's shoulder and his arms going limp. Adrian hefted him onto his right side, supporting him as best as he could. It was difficult—Trevor wasn't exactly short. Or light. 

The moment they got within sight of the gates all six of Trevor's sisters came rushing towards them, all exclaiming and asking and all so relieved to see their little brother that it made a little bud of warmth bloom in Adrian's chest. They insisted on carrying him the rest of the way, so Adrian stepped back, allowing them to hoist him up and carefully carry him till the gates, murmuring concernedly over the cut on his face and the blood covering his clothes.

They carried him till his room, laying him carefully on the bed. Adrian remembered that night all those months ago, carrying him the same way, stitching up his wounds, carefully wiping the blood off his face, putting him to bed. It felt like so long ago, a time when they'd been nothing more than just tentative friends, even if Adrian already had a tiny crush on him at the time. 

But this time things were so different—so much had changed. Now they knew about Aalis, now there was Sypha, now things between the two of them were so different. Then felt like a lifetime ago. 

"Your mother is a doctor, isn't she?" Gabriel asked him, peering at Adrian through his crooked glasses. "You should know more than all of us combined."

"She has taught me... most of what she knows," Adrian allowed. "It isn't much, though."

"Can you...?" He gestured at Trevor, helplessly almost. He'd eschewed his jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, his braces undone. His shirt was untucked and his hair was a mess. He looked like a concerned father, and so worried that Adrian caved, nodding. 

"I'll do whatever I can," he said. "But I'll need a few things."

Five minutes later he was kneeling beside Trevor's bed, with a bottle of whiskey, a few herbs, a few balls of cotton and a lot of bandages next to him. He took a deep breath, shrugging his coat off, rolling his sleeves up till his elbows. He pulled his hair into a messy knot at the back of his head, getting it out of his face. 

He treated the cut as best as he could, cleaning it with the whiskey—he'd have preferred the concoctions his mother used, ones mixed with different herbs, but the whiskey would have to do for now. He managed to staunch the bleeding, carefully smearing a salve onto his face before reaching for the bandages. 

The whole family and Sypha were watching, making him squirm a little, but after a while the world around him fell away. All that mattered now was Trevor, the cut across his face, the bruises on his hands. He pulled his cloak off his shoulders, tossing it away before slipping a hand beneath the sheets, sliding a knife from Trevor's belt. 

He quickly cut Trevor's shirt off his body, peeling the two halves of it off his skin and tossing them aside as well. He looked for more injuries, and found a few more cuts, and another impressive collection of bruises across his side. He treated them quickly enough, then turned back to his eye. 

Once it was tightly bandaged, the insides of the cloth smeared with more salve, he sat back, feeling his arms and shoulders aching. He stood up, feeling the coiled muscles in his back crack audibly as he did. He winced, turning around. 

"He should be all right in a few days," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've stopped the bleeding for now, but it should start again in about three hours. I don't know when he'll wake up, but ideally it'd take a day or so."

They all chorused their gratitude, moving towards him, putting hands on his shoulders and smiling at him, their worry washed away if only for a moment. He was a little overwhelmed by it all, but he found himself smiling after a few minutes, telling them it was the least he could do, telling them that they didn't owe them anything. Sypha was smiling at him, an unreadable shimmer in her eyes, standing a little ways away. 

"I'll stay with him for now," Adrian said once the room quieted again. "I'll redress the bandages when I need to, then." He nodded at everyone. "You should all get some sleep, it's been a long three days."

The room emptied slowly, and they were all talking about how they'd have to make something to eat and what they'd say to Trevor when he woke up, laughing tiredly and looking exhausted but happy, and Adrian found himself grateful for their smiles. It meant things were getting better, didn't it?

Soon it was just Adrian and Marie left in the room, after Sypha slipped through the door, nodding at Adrian and smiling at him before she closed the door. The moment it closed Marie sighed, moving to Trevor's side, putting a hand on his cheek as he slept.

"What has he brought on himself?" she asked softly. "He's gotten himself into so much trouble."

"He did the right thing," Adrian said, moving to stand beside her. "He found a lot family secrets, uncovered your real history, liberated your name from them."

"And he found you two." She sighed. "I think that's the most important thing he found." She looked up at him. "Thank you," she said. "You took care of him, you loved him and now you've healed him. If there's anything I can do—"

"You can go get some rest," he said, not unkindly. "You haven't slept for three days. I'll be here with him, you can sleep now."

"I think that's what I'll do," she sighed, rubbing a hand across her eyes. She smiled tiredly at him before making herself scarce, shutting the door behind her. 

Adrian sat in a chair beside Trevor's bed, curling up and watching him sleep. He was entirely still, his hair stirring a little as he breathed. He looked oddly peaceful, the blankets settled around his waist, his face turned away so that Adrian couldn't see the bandage across his eye. 

He leaned forward, gently brushing his hair off his forehead. He stroked a thumb across his cheek, feeling his breaths on his fingers. His skin was hot beneath Adrian's hand, almost feverish. He tilted his head, dropping the lightest of kisses onto his forehead. "You'll be all right," he said softly, even though he knew Trevor couldn't hear. 

He shut his eyes, leaning his head against Trevor's. And, so softly, even he could hardly hear himself he whispered, "I love you."

It felt odd, saying the words aloud, even if Trevor couldn't hear him. The words nearly choked off in his throat, but once they were out he felt as if some unimaginably heavy weight had lifted off his chest. He smiled a little, leaning back and opening his eyes. "You hear that, you stubborn idiot? I love you. And I want to see your face every day for the rest of my life."

He leaned back, curling up on the chair again, smiling a little to himself. How bad could things be, if Trevor was there, if he was going to be all right, if there was no more curse and no more rules? He sat back and settled down to wait, his chin balanced on the back of his hand. 

Three hours later he redressed the bandages, and he was just settling back into the chair when Gabriel edged into the room, leaving the door open behind him. "How is he doing?" he asked, quietly. 

"All right," Adrian said. "I've redressed his bandages, the wound started bleeding again. Another four or five hours and I'll have to dress them again—"

"You should go to bed," Gabriel said. "You've been up for almost four whole days. Everyone else is asleep, I can stay with Trevor."

"But the bandages," Adrian said, blinking his burning eyes. "I have to—"

"I can dress the bandages," insisted Gabriel kindly, putting a hand on his back. "Now get some rest. You look like death on two legs."

"But—I mean, wouldn't it be—if he wakes up—"

"Adrian," said Gabriel softly, but firmly, "if he wakes up, his father will be here to take care of him. Now you go sleep. I'll tell you if anything happens tomorrow morning."

"All—all right then." He stood, wobbling a bit on his feet. "Thank you."

He waved Adrian away good-naturedly, settling himself into the chair by his son's side. Adrian left the room, shutting the door behind him as he went. He was moving away, trying to remember the way to the room he and Sypha had stayed in before they'd gone down to the library and failing rather miserably. 

He turned into an unfamiliar corridor, then doubled back, then emerged in another unfamiliar corridor. He had just moved back around when he nearly bumped into Marie, dressed in a long pale blue nightgown with a red dressing gown thrown over it. Her hair was loose, and for half a second she looked like Aalis, just a little—and then he blinked, and the image fell away. 

"You're lost, aren't you?" she asked with a smile, and he laughed. "Yes, I'm afraid I am. It's... a big house."

"That it is. Come, I'll show you the way." He followed her obediently, through twisting corridors that were more like a maze's than a manor's, till they finally reached the right door. Adrian pulled it open, his eyes alighting on Sypha sitting by the window, a book in her lap. She looked up, saw him, then scrambled to her feet.

His breath cut off in his throat when he saw her, her hair tousled and her cheeks pink. She was gazing back at him, her lips parting a little, the air between them suddenly becoming charged, alive, crackling with something he couldn't quite identify. His mouth went dry and he swallowed hard, suddenly aware of nothing else but her. 

Marie raised a brow, and if she could feel the frankly palpable tension in the air between them, she didn't show it. Instead she said softly, "Ring if you need me, I'm a corridor to your left, three doors down the right."

Adrian hardly registered the words. He nodded blankly, and she glanced between them before shutting the door, which locked with a decisive _click._

Adrian strode forward and Sypha rushed towards him at the same time, and they collided in the middle of the room, Sypha's arms wrapping around his shoulders and his own arms going around her waist. He lifted her clean off her feet when he kissed her, her fingers clutching at his shoulders as she kissed him back, hard, desperate, clashing. 

Her lips were soft, and she felt soft and warm and delicate in his arms, but her kisses were fire, hot and driving. Her hands slid into his hair, pulling it free from its messy knot, letting it shower down his back in messy loops. She gripped a fistful and tugged, and his lips slid against hers as he groaned softly, his lips parting. 

Her tongue eased his lips open further, and then the taste of her was spreading through his mouth, making his whole body tighten like a corkscrew. He managed to turn around and push her up against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist and her fingers sliding into his hair. 

She broke the kiss for a moment to pull his shirt over his head, dropping it onto the floor once she'd yanked it off. His own fingers fumbled desperately for the clasp of her robes, slipping ineffectually over it. He tried again, but it refused to give, stubbornly staying tightly clasped. 

He swore softly and she laughed a little, drawing away. She batted his hand away, reaching up for the clasp herself. She tugged at it and it gave, and she drew the robes off her body, kicking them away once they fell around her feet. She wore nothing underneath but for her black sleeves and a thin lace chemise, one that stopped at the tops of her thighs. 

He couldn't take his eyes off her, his heart jolting unevenly in his chest as his eyes devoured the sight of her, the curves of her legs and the freckles on her shoulders, the generous curves of her hips, the light swell of her breasts through the lace. He swallowed, his lips parting, his hands reaching out to settle on her hips. 

He pulled her closer, his lips finding her throat, shutting his eyes. "You're gorgeous," he murmured, kissing her neck. She squirmed a little, her hands tightening in his hair. "Adrian," she said, and her voice was breathless. 

He pulled away, drawing her sleeves off, then kissed her again, and this time she wound herself around him, arching up to meet his lips, sighing and purring when his tongue stroked into her mouth, searching for the taste of her. She pushed him back, not breaking the kiss, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. 

He sprawled across it, pulling her over him as he did, feeling the softness of her skin against his as she pressed herself to him, her hands tracing over his chest, over his back, discovering every inch of him. He rolled her over onto her back, making sure to keep his weight off her as he did. 

She was looking up at him, eyes wide and dark, lips parted. "Adrian," she whispered. He saw her swallow, and one of her hands reached up to cup his cheek. He shut his eyes at her touch, leaning into her palm. "Sypha," he said softly. 

One of her hands slid down, her thumb flicking over his hipbone, drawing him down. He lowered himself over her carefully, and then they were touching, their bodies lining up neatly. His lips just brushed against hers, slowly, carefully. She leaned up and deepened it, arching her back when he kissed her harder, his hands skimming over her thighs, over the silk of her chemise, smoother than water against his skin. 

She was so close he could feel everything—the warmth of her breath, the heat of her skin, the flutter of her lashes—and the click of his fang teeth as they extended suddenly, against his will. He pulled back hastily, leaning back with a hand over his mouth. 

"What?" Sypha asked, sounding dazed. "Adrian, what?"

"It—it's nothing," he managed, willing his fangs to retract. She struggled to sit up, leaning on her elbows as she blinked dark blue eyes at him. "You're hungry," she said. "You lost blood today when you healed Trevor."

He sighed. "I wasn't expecting to feel the effects so soon."

Her expression was unreadable. "Do you have blood?" she asked. "Can you get it?"

"I could go back home, sort it out," he said. "If I go now I can be back before dawn—"

"No," she said. "Adrian, I'm right here."

The implication of her words hit him a moment later, and he reeled back, shaking his head. "Sypha, no. I can't drink from you—"

"Why not? I'm willing to give you what you need. I don't mind, Adrian."

"I could hurt you, kill you—"

"Last time you were starving out of your mind," she said, putting a gentle, cautious hand on his jaw. She ran her hand thoughtfully over his cheek, her eyes finding his. "I know you won't hurt me. It's okay, Adrian. I know you'll stop before it goes too far. I trust you."

"Sypha..."

"I trust you," she said again. "Do you trust me?"

He didn't hesitate before saying, "Of course I do." Then he sighed, shaking his head. "But this... I don't want... it's not something I've done before," he finished, finally. 

"You drank from Trevor."

"I didn't know what I was doing. And he didn't offer." He trailed a finger across her cheek, the darkness hugging the angles of her face, turning her face into a stained-glass painting of shadow and light. "This is... different."

"Well, I know you won't hurt me," she said. She leaned up, gently kissing him. He turned his face to meet her lips, his eyes falling closed. She pulled away a second later, eyes shimmering. "Do it, Adrian." 

He exhaled, his finger moving down the line of her throat until it reached her racing pulse, where it stopped and rested. His eyes found hers, hazed through with shadows and glittering and beautiful. "Neck?" she asked softly. "Wrist?"

"Neck is fine." He let out a measured breath, feeling the scent of her blood rise from her skin, dizzying him with desire. He gently pulled her closer, slotting their bodies together as he turned so that both of them were lying on their sides, their legs tangled together. He leaned forward, lips finding the smooth curve of her throat, feeling her blood pulsing beneath his tongue. 

She shivered, her fingers sliding into his hair as he pressed light, soft kisses to her neck, relishing in her soft sounds of approval. His lips found the pulse in her throat and he mouthed at the rush of life he could feel there, the scent of her essence making his head spin. 

He angled his head, then carefully, gently bit down, his fangs piercing her skin easily, puncturing it. Her hands tightened in his hair—the only reaction she gave—before he tilted his head, slowly beginning to drink. She sighed, relaxing into him as he did, going pliant and limp. 

Her blood on his tongue tasted like energy, sunlight, magic. It filled him, filled his veins and filled his head with the scent and taste of her. He had been starving and half-mad when he had drank from Trevor, but _this_... this was something else, something awake and something aware, something sweeter. 

He was aware of everything; the arch of her back, the feeling of her hands in his hair, the soft sighs that were coming out of her mouth. One of his hands slid down her side, feeling the silk of her chemise beneath his fingers, frictionless and smooth. He traced the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the curves of her thighs. 

She gave a breathy moan and something inside him twisted at the sound. He felt the seductive tang of arousal on her blood, feminine and sweet. She shifted closer, and her heartbeat was taking flight, climbing higher and higher. He was still drinking from her, her blood in his veins lightening his body, replacing the blood he'd lost earlier that day. 

There was something different about have a willing donor, someone who willingly gave him what he needed. It didn't leave him with that terrible guilt in his chest, guilt that came with taking something unasked, and guilt that came with enjoying it when he had. But now, there was no guilt. There was only Sypha, the taste of her blood on his tongue, the curves of her body underneath his hands, the way she pressed her thighs together when he pulled her closer. 

He hadn't lost enough blood to be unaware, however. 

His hand on her hip dipped lower, skimming up her thighs. She shivered, swallowing, and he carefully drew her leg over his lip, his fingers sliding from her thigh to the inside of her knee, hiking her leg up further. She moaned quietly, her breath shortening, and without breaking free he drew her closer, rocking his hips into hers shallowly. 

She gasped, the swell of her breasts brushing his bare chest as she did. It sent sensation like a shock traveling through him, shooting down his spine. He did it again and she said his name, breathless and desperate. His fingers danced up the smooth inside of her thigh, then almost carefully slid up further. 

She stiffened, and when he paused, questioning, she exhaled, then relaxed, going pliant underneath him again. He moved his fingers upward, rucking the hem of her shift upwards till it bunched around her hips. Carefully, mindful not to startle her he let his fingers just graze the heat between her legs, cautious and exploratory. 

She moaned again, her back curving backwards. Her leg tightened around his waist as she strained towards him, her breaths coming out in rough, short pants. Sensing she would begin to feel the effects of blood loss soon he carefully broke away, his tongue pressing to the wounds to heal them before he drew away fully.

She hardly seemed to notice; his fingers were still between her legs, carefully teasing her. She was moaning and moving in his arms, sweat sticking her hair to her forehead, his name dragging itself from her throat over and over. He pulled her closer, pressing soft butterfly kisses to her shoulders, drawing the slender straps of her chemise down her arm as he did. 

She was hot and responsive against his hand, her hips rocking into his fingers, her hands biting into his shoulders. He felt drunk on her, on the sounds she was making, on the way she moved against him, the heat of her on his fingers. He let himself wish for one second that he could taste her other essence, let his mouth wander where his hands were, taste her heat on his tongue. 

He yanked himself away from the thought, heat spreading through his insides. He pressed his lips to her jaw, shifting closer. She tipped her head back, whispering his name, telling him not to stop. He didn't, moving his fingers faster, drawing delicious moans from her lips. Finally she broke, her legs tightening bruisingly around his hips, her head falling back, a ragged gasp tearing itself from her throat. She stiffened in his arms, her nails dragging down his back, most likely leaving scratches. 

He laid her down gently once she came down, and she looked mouthwatering, her shift rucked up till her hips, her hair tousled, her cheeks flushed and lips parted. She opened her eyes as he settled down next to her, an arm wrapping around her waist. He leaned forward, dropping a light kiss at the corner of her mouth. She hummed, laying her head on his chest. 

"That was..." She exhaled. "That was amazing."

He smiled into her hair, and she sighed. "I would be more articulate, but I feel useless. I can't think." She melted further into him and he laughed, fingers tangling in her hair. "I've done the unthinkable," he said. "I've robbed the Speaker of her words."

"Robbed me of a lot else," she murmured, arms tightening around him. "That... it was my... I mean, I've never... been with anyone like... like that."

He blinked at the wall, feeling something oddly warm expand in his chest at the words, almost endearing in their shyness. "Well, then I hope it lived up to your expectations?"

"Better," she sighed. 

He laughed again, drawing her closer, kissing her cheek. "I'll raise the bar soon, don't worry," he promised. "Or maybe we'll get Trevor to raise it for me."

"Mmm... not now," she exhaled. "Too tired."

He grinned, pressing his cheek to her hair. "Sleep now, silly thing."

She nestled her head further into his chest. "Adrian?" she mumbled. 

"What is it, darling?"

"Love you," she said. 

He smiled, even though she couldn't see. "Love you too," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this trio being in love. <33333


	23. Galaxies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Galaxies:** _The journey of souls, hopes and desires for the future._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God they finally fuck like 23 chapters in. 
> 
> **CW: Graphic sexual content and nudity.**

**_Trevor_ **

He knew he had to wake up. 

He was suspended in the space between waking and dreaming, somewhere in a murky, hazy world where time had no meaning and day and night merged into each other with no rhyme or reason. It was waiting, slow, as if he were just on the cusp of opening his eyes, as if he already had opened his eyes, but he couldn't move or see or feel anything. 

But he could hear everything. 

He heard Adrian's voice, whispering in his ear, telling him it was going to be all right. It was soft and clear in his head, and at first he'd thought it was another dream, that he'd dreamed everything that had happened and that he was still in Aalis' head, reliving her memories again and again until he tore apart. 

But then he had heard Adrian say it. 

_I love you,_ he'd said. 

The words had rang in his ears, over and over and over again, and he wanted so badly to say it back, to tell him that he wanted everything from him and Sypha and it wasn't just want anymore; it was a sort of bone-deep _need_ that told him that they had irrevocably become a part of him now, a part of him he knew he couldn't live without. 

But his body refused to wake, and he couldn't move or open his eyes. So all he could do was breathe, and wait, and say the words in his head. 

And he waited. 

And he breathed.

And he breathed.

And he waited...

_"This is the price you pay for loving a monster," her father breathed, his sword, polished and unused and beautiful the way venomous snakes were beautiful, hiding poison beneath jeweled scales that glimmered enticingly. His eyes were blue, the cold unforgiving blue of ice that no amount of sun could ever corrode._

He breathed.

_He felt Aalis' heart break, time and time again, feel the last vestiges of her hope, already wearing thin, shatter into a trillion pieces. He felt her try to pick the pieces up, but all she did was cut her hands on the shards of her own broken soul, crosses slicing into her palms, blood welling around the cuts. He felt her pain as she watched her lover die, felt her betrayal and her sadness, felt her wonder when her family had become people she hardly knew, people who were entirely without mercy and without pity and without love, which she had come to realize so intimately with another, who she could not ever be with, in life or in death._

He waited.

 _I love you_ , he heard Adrian whisper. 

He breathed. 

_The pain was too much for him to bear after he witnessed Aalis' lover being murdered through her eyes for what felt like the thousandth time. When he resurfaced from the memory he hadn't been able to distinguish her pain from his, her anger from his, her grief from his. He had been unable to move, curled up on the ground, pain and sadness like a weight on his chest. Even when she screamed at him to get up, he couldn't move. He didn't want to. He just wanted the pain to end..._

He breathed.

_The last memory was Aalis', and it wasn't._

He waited.

_He walked into the forest, and beneath the ray of moonlight he saw Adrian, the silver drenching him turning his hair to platinum and his eyes to pearl. He saw Trevor and then he smiled, and it had broken him._

He breathed. 

_He had taken Trevor in his arms and he had kissed him, and Trevor knew what was going to happen next but he didn't want that moment to end, didn't want to leave Adrian's arms, not when to separate from that comfort meant the black wings of death rushing in his ears—_

_I love you_ , Adrian said. 

_He saw a sword driven through Adrian's heart, saw his blood like rubies under the slick silver moonlight. He saw the life leave his body one breath at a time, saw his eyes leach of luster and his skin leach of color, saw him die._

He waited.

_It played itself again and again; he saw Adrian die a thousand times. He was pinned, helpless, unable to tear his eyes away from the blood and the blade in his chest. He saw him shape Trevor's name on his dying breath, saw him fall and lie still, saw him never get up again._

He couldn't wait anymore. 

_I love you_ , he heard Adrian say. 

He gasped for breath.

_"I will see you again," Aalis whispered. "I swear it."_

He opened his eyes.

* * *

Light.

It was the first thing he registered, the first thing his brain interpreted upon finally returning to the world of the living. It suffused his vision, blurring everything into a shimmery golden haze. One he'd blinked the stars away his vision came into focus, and he looked around.

He was in his room, in his house. He felt blankets piled on top of him, and he was toasty warm, hot almost. There were bandages wrapped around his head, covering his left eye, and more wrapped around his chest, and another few on his arms and legs. He managed to identify the golden light as the lamp on his bedside table, the flame turned midway to cast a mellow yellow glow all over the room. 

Adrian was propped up in a chair by his bed, long legs folded one over the other, his chin propped on his hand, head drooping. He was dozing, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted. He looked—peaceful. The lines that worry drew on his face were erased by sleep, and he looked relaxed, more relaxed than Trevor had ever seen him. 

His hair was tousled, and he could just see the tips of his fangs, peeking out from underneath his upper lip. He looked adorably rumpled; his coat was nowhere to be seen, and his shirt was creased, the sleeves rolled up till his elbows. His cheeks were pink, a noticeable flush in his skin. 

"Adrian?" he croaked. 

Adrian jumped, immediately sitting up and pulling his hair out of his face. He blinked, as if trying to identify the source of the sound. His eyes fell on Trevor, and then widened when he saw he was awake. He scrambled out of the chair, so hastily he nearly fell over. 

"Trevor!" He slid to his knees beside the bed, grabbing Trevor's hand. "I—I didn't know you were—when did you wake? How are you feeling? Is there any pain? Are you hungry, thirsty? Can you—"

"Adrian, calm down." He coughed. "I'm fine. Better, anyway. Sort of feel like shit. But it's not that bad."

The flush in his cheeks had intensified, and his eyes were bright. "There's no pain? In your eye, or any of the other injuries?"

"Not much." He tried to sit up, struggling both against the sheer volume of blankets he was buried under and his own fatigue, the heaviness in his limbs. Adrian gently took him by the shoulders, easing him back down. "Not now," he said. "Your body is still weak."

"How long have I been out?"

"Three and a half days now."

His head swam. "Wow."

"You were beginning to worry me," he said, absently trailing a hand across his cheek. His eyes were soft. "I was wondering if you'd ever wake up."

"You think I'd miss the opportunity to see you with bed hair?" He sighed, his head falling back onto the pillows. He felt a little smile tug at his lips at the sight of Adrian's disheveled appearance, and the blond mess that was his hair. "You'd need a stronger man than me to pass that up."

"Oh, shut up." He patted his hair self-consciously, and Trevor laughed, even if it hurt. "I missed you," he said before he could stop himself. Something about how stripped he was, how open and how vulnerable he seemed, tugged at him more than anything else, that he could be so worn out and worried about Trevor of all people. 

Adrian sat at the edge of the bed, gazing down at him. "I missed you too. More than words can say." He leaned down, then almost hesitantly kissed his cheek. He pulled away much too quickly, and his eyes were even brighter than before. He blinked rapidly, looking away. 

"How many days was it?" Trevor asked, needing to know, needing to know how long he was trapped in a corpse's mind, reliving her pain until he broke from it. "How many days was I... gone?"

"Three days," Adrian said, and his voice was oddly thick and wobbly. "You were gone for three days." He sniffled a little, wiping at his eyes. "They were the worst three days of my life," he said quietly. 

Trevor felt something in his chest give way, and he shifted a bit, pulling the blankets aside and holding out a hand. "Get over here, you fangy sap," he said, patting the space beside him. "Come here."

Adrian crawled under the blankets obediently, burying his face in Trevor's chest. His arms wrapped around him, so tightly he couldn't breathe for a few seconds. He heard him sniffle again and wrapped his own arms around Adrian, resting his chin on top of his head. 

"Hey, I'm here now," he said, shutting his eyes, letting the feeling of Adrian's arms around him lull him into a trance. "I'm not leaving you ever again."

"If you do, I'll kill you," Adrian muttered tearfully, and Trevor felt a laugh bubble up from somewhere deep in his chest, somewhere he had almost forgotten existed. "You have my express permission to do so," he said. 

"How long was it for you?" Adrian asked quietly. "How many days?"

Trevor exhaled, shutting his eyes. "It was... it was weeks," he said. "I lost count of how many. It just blurred together after a while, I couldn't tell when night started or when day ended."

"I thought you weren't coming back," Adrian said, his voice muffled. "I thought you were dead, that I'd never see you again and I hadn't said so many things to you that I wanted to, and I'd stopped you from saying what you wanted to when I should have let you say it..."

He leaned back, lifting Adrian's face towards his with a hand under his chin. "Adrian," he said, and he averted his gaze, looking down. "Hey," Trevor said. "Look at me."

Hesitantly, his eyes found Trevor's. 

"I love you," he said, and Adrian exhaled sharply, staring at him unwaveringly now, his eyes never leaving Trevor's face. "I'd never leave you. I'd always come back to you—both of you. Curse or no curse."

Adrian opened his mouth—whether to say something or not Trevor didn't know, nor did he wait to find out. He'd already leaned down, drawing him closer and pressing his lips to Adrian's. 

He felt a warm sigh against his mouth, and then a second later they were kissing, Adrian's arms twining tighter around him, his lips moving over Trevor's in patient, thorough caresses. One of his hands reached up, gently cupping Trevor's cheek, his skin cool and smooth. 

It felt good, to kiss Adrian again and not care, not think about what might happen because of it. He let himself be washed away by it, by his closeness and his lips and his breath and hands. He was engulfed in it, in the feeling of it and the softness of Adrian's lips against his, the taste of cider and—was that whiskey?—on his tongue as he parted Trevor's lips with his own, their breath mingling. 

Trevor pulled him closer, a hand tangling in his hair. It was still slow, still soft and openmouthed and heavy, not blossoming out of control like how it had been in the library, when both of them had been desperate and aching and hurting. Now it was easier, healing, mending. If he could have stayed immersed in this one second for the rest of his life, he would have been happy. 

He heard himself purr into the kiss when Adrian's tongue brushed against his, first softly then more firmly, plundering his mouth, taking and tasting. He let him, merely tilting his head and parting his lips to beckon him in further. He felt Adrian's knee wedge itself between his legs, gently tipping him onto his back as he deepened the kiss. 

He was a little lost under it now, Adrian's body pressing him down into the mattress and his arms caging him between it and him. And now, finally, both their control had worn thin; Adrian's fingers laced with his, pinning his arms as his tongue curled against Trevor's, the taste of him exploding in his mouth. He still felt useless and too tired to move, but he tried anyway, arching up to nip at Adrian's bottom lip.

It drew a soft moan from Adrian's throat, and then somehow they pressed even closer, wrapping around each other, winding around each other's bodies like intricate thread, to tightly interwoven that nothing could untangle them. The next few minutes were a jumble of hot breath and gasps against each other's lips and dark sweet heat, and then Adrian was groaning his name and Trevor was laying a burning path of kisses along his neck and then they were kissing again and he was swallowing the gasps Adrian gave against his mouth—

He felt a sudden, sharp ache in his ribs, one that made him pull away, wincing. Adrian's kiss-drunk eyes cleared as he leaned back, out of breath, his cheeks bright and his lips flushed, concern instantly springing onto his face. "What happened?"

"Just—hurts." He pressed his fingers to the spot, which was, unsurprisingly, wrapped up in bandages. "Didn't expect it."

"It's my fault," Adrian said immediately. "That was so stupid of me—what was I thinking, just jumping you like that, and when you're injured besides?" He sat up, slipping a careful hand beneath the bandage on his chest. He squirmed a little at the ticklish feeling of it, but a second later Adrian had withdrawn.

"It seems to be fine, it's probably just... overexertion." His cheeks flushed as he cleared his throat. "Right. This should be healed in three days, so for three days we should probably take it a bit slower." He was still blushing. 

"My body will have incentive to heal then, if it means that after three days we can get down to some of that bed-warming we talked about earlier."

Adrian rolled his eyes, beginning to get up out of the bed, but Trevor caught his arm, stopping him. He gave him what he hoped was his best 'pleading blue eyes' thing that (almost) always worked on his mother. "Will you stay?"

Adrian hesitated visibly, glancing at his bandages. "Trevor..."

"Please?"

His eyes lingered on Trevor's face, then he crumpled noticeably, caving and heaving a sigh, sliding back under the sheets beside him. "Fine. But no kissing. Not until you're fully healed."

"Fine by me." He wrapped his arms around Adrian, snuggling closer as if he was a blanket. "As long as I get to keep you here and use you as a personal heater."

"I'm being exploited," Adrian said loftily, but there was no bite behind it. He melted into Trevor, laying his head on his shoulder with a sigh. He slipped his own arms around Trevor's waist, holding him just as tightly. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I've often heard that unconscious people can hear what you say to them, somewhere in the recesses of their minds."

"I could hear everything," Trevor said after a second. 

There was a pause. "Really?"

"Mmhmm."

"Oh. Well, then—I guess you heard me say—"

"That you hate that chair and your arse was sore and if you had to sit in it one more minute you'd burn it?"

"That too, but I also happened to tell you—ugh, never mind."

"I heard it anyway, you know." He buried his face into Adrian's hair. "Might as well say it to my face. Or in this case, my back."

"You're an idiot."

"That's a good enough confession as any, in my opinion."

"You really are."

"I love you too."

He heard Adrian laugh, then press a soft kiss to his palm. "You know I do."

"Afraid I don't." He yawned. "You'll have to spell it out for me, I'm rather slow on the uptake, if you didn't know."

He heard a sigh. "Fine, you impossible fool, I love you. Happy?"

"Ecstatic. Overjoyed. Exultant." He managed to wriggle around to face Adrian, looking into his disgruntled face. He leaned forward, dropping a tiny kiss on his nose. "Delighted. Exuberant." Another peck on the cheek. "Sunny. Jovial." He kissed his other cheek. 

Adrian was smiling a little now. "All right, I get your point. Now go back to sleep before your mother murders me for distracting you."

Just as he said it, he heard the door creak open, and both he and Adrian turned just in time to see Sypha duck into the room, holding something that glinted silver in the lamplight in her hands. She didn't appear to see them as she moved further into the room, and Trevor saw she was holding a goblet, one that had steam curling off the surface in lazy spirals.

"Adrian, once he wakes up, just make sure to give him this—" She broke off when she saw them, her eyes widening the same way Adrian's had. 

"Trevor!" She nearly dropped the goblet, quickly setting it onto the table and hastening to his side. "How—how are you feeling?"

"All right." He was finding it hard to think when she was so close, her soft, delicate features thrown into sharp focus by the lamplight. "Better." 

She put a gentle hand against his cheek. "When did you wake?"

"Just a few minutes ago," he said, and she nodded, fingers brushing the bandage over his face. He saw something in her eyes tighten, but she said nothing. "Here," she said, reaching out, taking the goblet. "You need to drink this."

He tried to sit up and she shook her head, wielding the goblet with a familiar glint in her eyes. "You should not be moving, much less sitting," she said imperiously. She slipped a hand to the back of his head, tilting his face up. "Here."

"I'm not a child," he muttered. "I can drink it myself—"

She gave him a look and he closed his mouth. 

Sip by sip she had him empty the goblet, which was full of thick, buttery soup that tasted like salt and spices. Once it was empty she set it aside, drawing the blankets up his chest, her thumb tracing lightly over his cheek. "There," she said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

He muttered something unintelligible, and something tender and soft blossomed in her eyes before her lips tilted up in the barest of smiles. She leaned forward slowly, kissing him gently, just a brief brush of lips that nevertheless sent warmth seeping into his whole body. She drew away a minute later, her fingers still lingering on his cheek. 

Her eyes searched his, her lips parted, her gaze almost questioning. She seemed to find the answer to her question in his face, because a second later she leaned in again, kissing him more firmly. One of his hands tangled in her hair as he tilted his head, their lips slotting together. She tasted like strawberries and cool clear water and he drew upon her mouth as if he were incredibly thirsty, the sure press of her lips like an anchor that grounded him. 

Finally she pulled away for air, panting. He saw two faint wounds in her throat, just at the vein, and in a rush of understanding he realized the reason behind Adrian's flushed cheeks, his high-colored skin. He didn't ask, however, and she said nothing either, even if he was sure she had seen him notice. 

"You should get your rest now," she said softly, drawing away. He caught at her hand, their fingers lacing together. She glanced back at him, the corner of her lips turning down in question. 

"I want you to stay, too." He tugged her forward and she huffed out a little laugh. "All right then," she said, folding herself beside him, effectively sandwiching him in between her and Adrian as he settled the blankets over all three of them. It was even warmer like this, with both of them pressing against him, Sypha's head on his chest and Adrian's arms around his waist, cocooning him in their shared heat. 

Adrian turned the flame low, bathing the room in darkness, and wordlessly they all shut their eyes, all entwined with no beginning and no end, and for the first time, but not the last time, Trevor fell asleep in the arms of the two people he knew that he loved the most, and would ever love. 

The moon rose and set outside, giving way to dawn, and still they dreamed, the shared weight of their desires forming a cradle where their future could lie, somewhere safe and somewhere peaceful, holding worlds.

* * *

"And remember to drink it every two hours, and redress the bandages, and get enough rest and drink enough water and move around a little to help strengthen your muscles, and also make sure to eat as much as you can," Sypha said, all without taking a single breath. She placed a gently smoking cup on the bedside table, filled about halfway with a buttery-looking tisane. 

"And if anything causes you discomfort or you need help with anything or if you want something, just ask me or Adrian or your mother, we can—"

"Let him breathe, Sypha," laughed Adrian, who was lounging on the bed beside Trevor. "He's a big boy, he can take care of himself." He glanced sideways at Trevor, eyes shimmering in the yellow lamplight. A lazy half-smirk curled his lips. "Can't you?"

"Of course not," Trevor said promptly, stretching and leaning back against the mountain of pillows supporting him, grinning back. "I need you and Sypha to constantly dote on me and bend to my every whim and fancy."

It had been four days since he'd first woken, and he'd mastered the arts of sitting up and actually walking so that he could finally go to the fucking bathroom by himself, and the bandages across his chest had come off, as had the ones on his arms. He felt remarkably better, as if his body were healing quicker than it should have, just as impatient as he was to go back into the woods. 

His family seemed bent on not mentioning anything that they knew had happened, although when he ventured cautiously that they would need to go back one last time his mother had cracked. She'd shouted at him for about ten seconds, then she'd burst into tears and thrown her arms around him and he'd told her how sorry he was that he'd worried her, and he had meant every word. 

"Oh?" Adrian grinned at him, an arm crooked behind his head. He looked mouthwateringly casual; his long body was sprawled effortlessly across the bed, his shirtsleeves were rolled up till his elbows and his hair was a little on the messier side, hanging down his shoulder in a pale gold cascade. His feet were bare. There was some much-needed color in his cheeks—something that anyone else wouldn't have really thought of—but to Trevor it meant he was healthy, and happy, and to him that meant more than words could say.

It made Trevor think of how things might have been, in another universe where there were no rules and no curses and where the three of them could live in simple, blissful domesticity. Maybe in a little cabin nestled in the woods by a river, where he could come home every day and see their faces and kiss them and love them. That their faces could be the last he saw before going to sleep at night and the first thing he saw when he woke in the morning. That he could have them, and want for nothing else.

"Trevor," said Sypha's voice, and he was broken from the wistful daydream, blinking up at her. She had moved to the side of the bed, standing above him, her eyes soft and her lips curled up in the tiniest of smiles. "You have that look again," she said. 

"What look?" 

"The one where you look like you're somewhere far away," she said softly, reaching out a hand, brushing his hair out of his eyes, off the bandage wrapped around his head. He shut the one eye he could, nuzzling into her palm. 

"I'm not," he murmured, feeling the softness of her skin against his. "I'm right here."

"Good," she said, her thumb stroking across his cheek. She reached out, turning the lever of the lamp on his bedside table, the flame lowering until it was but a lick, sending darkness sliding across the walls. The faint flame cast eerily beautiful shadows across the room, shifting and shimmering in whorls of dark blue and gray and white. 

A second later he startled as she lowered herself carefully onto his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. His eye opened as she maneuvered herself gently onto his thighs, perched half-on top of him. He had to admit he liked the sight of her there, elevated a little over him and settled between his legs. He tried not to let it show. 

Then she kissed him and he decided, _Ah, fuck it._

Her lips were soft, her breath warm as it mingled with his own. She seated herself more firmly in his lap as they kissed and a little shock of sensation traveled up his spine, making him shiver. She tasted like apples and tea and Sypha—magic and sweetness and comfort. It was familiar and easy, the way everything with both her and Adrian was easy, the easiest and most natural thing in his world. 

His fingers found her hips, thumbs cresting over the arches, feeling her supple curves beneath his hands. Her own hands were careful and soft as they curved around his face, dictating the angle of his mouth, her tongue running tantalizingly over the seam of his lips before she drew away. 

She gave him a gentle push, then he felt something hard and smooth press up against his back, long legs curving around his hips from behind. Adrian's touch was equally as electrifying as Sypha's, but there was something subtly different about it, something that drew the line between the two of them. One or the other was enough to make his head spin; both of them together stole every last breath from his lungs, lit the edges of his soul the way paper blackened at the edges first, curling and disintegrating before the whole thing erupted in a blaze of sparks.

Sypha's hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers winding into the fabric as her lips just brushed against his, a light, maddening touch. Her grip on his shirt tightened and it was as if she was waiting for his permission, waiting to see if it was all right. A sudden rush of affection tugged at him and he tilted his face upward, his mouth sliding across hers. His own fingers found the clasp of her robes, the metal cool against his skin. 

"Shall I, or will you?" he murmured. 

She smiled against his lips, then tugged the shirt up over his head, slowly and carefully—whether it was out of concern or whether she was just being a tease, he had no idea, but knowing Sypha, it was somewhere between the two. She tossed it behind her heedlessly, and then her palms settled flat on his chest, her eyes devouring the sight of him, running all over every inch of exposed skin as if she could drink him in, her lashes fluttering and her lips parting slightly. 

He leaned back against Adrian, whose arms wrapped loosely around his waist, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. Sypha exhaled, her eyes lowering, her hands slowly tracing over every scar, every blemish, every imperfection in his skin as if it were made of pure gold. Her breaths jumped erratically as she mapped his body, fingers discovering every inch of him, and it was as if she was taking him apart and bringing him back together, destroying him with every touch but creating him with the same hands, gentle and exploratory and perfect. 

She shut her eyes, leaning forward, warm lips meeting his throat, and he sighed, letting his head fall back onto Adrian's shoulder. Her hands curled on his chest, and he felt her lashes flutter against his collarbone, and her lips move against his skin when she spoke, so softly he hardly heard her. 

"Beautiful," she whispered, his heart beating beneath her hands. "You are beautiful, Trevor Belmont."

And when she leaned up and kissed his lips, he knew she meant it. 

It was slow, deliberate, heady, hot, a star going supernova. Each kiss was deeper than the last, as if they were trying to reach into each other, wind themselves around each other's tongues, share each other's breath. She was warm and soft and so alive in his arms, everything about her screaming _life_ —the urgent press of her lips against his, the heat of her skin, her soft gasps for breath between their kisses. 

She pulled back, her eyes wide and dark. She was so close he could see the faint smattering of freckles across her cheekbones, the faint line on her lower lip where he'd bitten it. Her fingers reached up, resting gently on the bandage covering half his face. His eye found both of hers, and he swallowed hard. 

"You can take it off," he said, softly. 

She glanced at him—fleeting, startled. "But it's... is it healed?"

"Pretty much. It's not bleeding anymore, and it doesn't even sting." He took her hand, their fingers tangling together as he raised their entwined hands to the bandage, gently guiding them towards where Adrian had tied them. She slowly tugged it off, carefully unraveling it, her touch soft, tender almost. 

He saw Adrian's hands reach out, help her, and together they both gently lifted off the last covering that remained of the map of new wounds the spirit realm had given him, the scars that Aalis had drawn on his skin with her hands. He still remembered the feeling of her claws raking down his face, the sudden, blinding flash of white-hot pain that had shot through him, her voice in his ear hissing, _And I will make sure nobody will have them ever again._

They drew the bandage off entirely and his eyes were closed, the air strangely cold and alien almost on his left eye, having been covered for so long. Slowly, mindful of the newly regenerated skin he opened his eyes, blinking a few times to familiarize himself with the small, involuntary movement again. 

He could see both of them, shapes and suggestions of them in the dark. The waterfall of Adrian's fair hair, the curve of Sypha's lashes, the pearly glint of one of Adrian's fangs as his lips parted. It was, for some reason, as if he was seeing them both for the first time—Adrian in the woods, pressing Trevor to the ground, hands in his hair yanking his head back and fangs poised at his throat, and he'd been defenseless and possibly facing death and all he'd been able to think was, _My God, he's beautiful._

And Sypha, her huge curious eyes and her clever fingers and her even cleverer mouth. She'd been all arrogance and boldness and willfulness, a spark burning so bright in the eternal black void that the world around her gave her credit for. He'd hated her in the beginning, but perhaps that was because they were much too alike for their own good. But later he saw her—he really, actually saw her—and he'd known he was done for. 

He was done for the moment he met them. Maybe he hadn't realized it, but now, when he finally let himself admit it, he knew. No matter what, the world would bring them together. The stars and planets and even the whole universe if it had to—would shift and take itself apart and align in just the right order for their lives to touch. 

He felt the softest of touches, skin on skin, on the still-slightly-tender skin above his eye and he closed them, holding his breath as he heard Adrian inhale sharply, his thumb running lightly over the scar. It was gentle, a butterfly dancing across his skin, but there was a weight behind it, in the way his fingers shook, the tenderness of his touch. 

"It suits you," he said softly, and Trevor laughed quietly. "Does it?"

"Mmhmm." He felt him lean forward, fingers curling around Trevor's neck, his breath trailing gently over his forehead as he traced the scar with his lips. A deep shiver crawled up the base of his spine; the sensation was entirely new, almost unfamiliar. But it felt good—better than good. 

"Very rugged," he murmured, and Trevor laughed again. "Oh, really?"

"Very," agreed Sypha. 

"Glad to know it's a popular look." 

Adrian's fingers dipped down, fingertips pressing to his chest, pushing him backwards onto the pillows. His back hit the bedding and he pulled Adrian down over him, their lips meeting. 

The memory of that kiss exploded in his head, pressed against the shelves in the library, feeling the world coming apart around him. But this was something else; it was sure, safe, said _this is right, this is how it's supposed to be._ There was nothing now, no restraints and no curses and no fear. It was just Adrian.

He felt Adrian shift above him, and he broke the kiss for half a second to yank his shirt over his head, dropping it the moment he lifted it off his head. He shook out his hair, and Trevor almost expected it to throw off sparks, bright gold even in the dimness as it was. A second later he leaned down again, and then they were touching all along their lengths and he could feel shifting muscle and soft skin against his own.

He let his hands wander, tracing over every inch of skin he could reach. He was spare and beautiful, his hair falling around their faces like a curtain woven from gold, hiding them. He could feel Adrian's long lashes brush against his cheeks as he tilted his head, his tongue sinking into Trevor's mouth. 

A hand slid down Trevor's chest, slender fingers slipping over the buttons of his trousers. They popped open under his touch and something in his chest jolted unevenly. 

Adrian pulled away, a finger trailing over his cheek. "Is—is this okay?" he asked, his voice hardly a whisper. "Can we—?"

Trevor shut his eyes and nodded. "Yes," he heard himself say. And then, so quietly even he could hardly hear himself, he said, "Don't stop."

He felt Adrian's exhale on his lips, felt Sypha's fingers on his skin, felt both of them, skin against skin, and when Adrian's lips pressed to his neck all he could think was _finally._

With each movement, each divide between all of them that they removed both of them would pause, pause and their eyes would ask, and each time Trevor would nod, telling them silently _yes, go on, yes._ And finally when there was nothing between them but skin he stilled, thinking that he had never been closer to two people than this, that after this he couldn't turn back. 

After this he would be theirs and they would be his, and there was nothing more he could possibly want, nothing more he could ask for. 

Adrian's lips brushed against his, teasing and light, a question in itself. And Trevor wanted to answer it, wanted to tell him yes, this was what he wanted, this was what he had wanted for months now. They'd never gone this far before—there had been times when they'd gotten close, but it was as if there was some invisible line that had been drawn, where all three of them knew instinctively to stop. 

But he wanted to erase that line tonight. 

Adrian's hands were on his skin, heat and cold and sparks trailing in their wake. His breath jumped unevenly, and when he leaned back Trevor allowed himself to look at him, really look at him, acres and acres of smooth skin so pale it was nearly translucent, the inhumanly graceful line of his throat and the wings of his collarbone, the edges and curves of his legs and the seamless sweep of his hips. 

He looked like an angel, with his halo of golden hair, his burnished amber eyes, his endless expanse of white, glowing skin—the sheer beauty of him left Trevor breathless, and he hadn't even touched him yet. He looked faraway and untouchable and inaccessible, so perfect and so pure that to touch him would be sin. 

Adrian's eyes softened, and then his fingers laced with Trevor's, and he might have looked Elysian and otherworldly and distant, but his skin was warm, and his touch familiar. He placed both Trevor's hands on his chest, right above his heart. He felt the faint rhythm of it against his palms, the pulse of life beneath corded muscle and smooth skin. 

"You can touch me," he said. 

Something white-hot and borderline painful twisted inside him at the words, at the way Adrian's eyes were wide and clear, how steady his voice was. He was looking at Trevor, unwavering, but the slight flush on his cheeks betrayed emotion—anticipation? Nervousness? 

Whatever it was, Trevor allowed no time for it to fester; he did as Adrian asked, letting his hands roam over his exposed skin, discovering every inch of him, familiarizing himself with the feeling of him against his hands. Sypha's hands joined his a moment later, and Adrian's eyes lowered to track their touches, his lashes fluttering, his breath hitching. 

It was slow, their careful exploration of him. Every dip, every ridge, every crevice in his skin, every shadow and every rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Moonlight poured silver onto his skin, coating him and turning him luminescent, ethereal, breathtaking. 

And he belonged to them. 

Trevor's hands dipped a shade too low and Adrian tsked, long fine-boned fingers wrapping around his wrists, lips flicking up at the corner into a little smile. "Not yet," he chided softly, and the faint note of something almost like command—something that made the words a purr—sent a little thrill down his spine. 

Before he could dwell on what exactly that meant Sypha was there, all supple curves and warm breath, curled up against his side. She filled his hands, soft where Adrian was hard, her skin warm where his was cold, her kisses a cool river where his had been fire.

He shut his eyes, let it overwhelm him. It was a heady contrast, the two of them, the taste of both their tongues lingering in his mouth when she drew away. Her eyes were wide and dark, the shadows and light gliding across her body pooling around her like cream, thick sweet cream that made her skin seem just that more softer, cream he wanted to taste on his tongue.

She leaned back as he leaned forward, dipping her down onto the mattress until her back met the surface, her palms sliding up his chest as she did. Her back arched when their lips met, blunt nails digging into his shoulder blades and slender legs wrapping around his waist. 

He pulled away, lips sliding to the arching curve of her throat, feeling her pulse hammering beneath his tongue. He tilted his head, then almost carefully bit down, sucking her skin into his mouth, making sure he left a mark once he let go. He wanted it there, wanted that bruise to stay on her neck for days afterward, wanted her to remember this every time she saw it, that he had given it to her. 

She gasped, legs tightening around his waist, straining towards him. He could still see the faint remnants of the wounds in her throat where Adrian had bitten her, see the scars of his fangs. He brushed over them with his lips and she moaned breathlessly in response, her back arching again. The sound sent a dart of heat between his legs, and something in him clenched, hard. 

He was going to make sure she moaned his name if it was the last thing he did.

He pressed a bruising line of kisses down the column of her throat, his hands squeezing her hips, feeling the way she moved, the way she pressed her thighs together when his tongue traced across her skin, the way her breath hitched. She was perfect, he thought, perfect like this. 

His kisses strayed lower and lower, and she squirmed as he stopped, just below her navel. His hands dipped, fingers gripping her thighs, pulling them apart slowly, inch by inch. Her hands were in his hair, her harsh breaths in his ear and he wanted so badly to give her this, give her this all-encompassing feeling of being cared for, being wanted.

Her scent hit him like a drug, made his head spin as he pressed light, wet butterfly kisses to the insides of her thighs, heard her breathing turn ragged as his lips just grazed the heat between her legs. She gasped, fingers tightening in his hair, her knees locking around his shoulders.

He felt something trail down his spine, and he didn't have to look to know it was Adrian, his lips ghosting over Trevor's sweat-slicked skin, the edges of his fangs just nicking the ridges of his spine. He sighed between Sypha's thighs, his eyes closing as his lips parted, his fingers gripping her legs tighter, his tongue tracing across her heat.

She said his name, her voice strained, breathless, uneven. He felt the mattress dip behind him and then Adrian was steadying him with a hand on his hip, leaning forward. And just as Trevor wondered vaguely where his other hand was he felt it—two fingers pressing between his legs, insistent and probing. 

"Jesus _fuck,_ Adrian—" he heard himself gasp, and then Adrian was leaning forward, lips brushing against his ear. His breath was warm, hot almost, and his touch felt almost uncomfortably good. 

"I hope you have something in this mess of a room that might, ah... help?" he murmured. He pressed a light, teasing kiss just below his ear and he swallowed hard, his mouth going dry for a second or two. Oh, God. This was really happening. 

"Uh, yeah—bathroom," he managed. "Second shelf."

He felt Adrian's weight behind him vanish, let himself worry for half a second, then decided, _Screw it; it's not like I'm not already going to hell anyway._

He turned his attention back to Sypha, her irresistible heat and the sweet tang of her on his lips. His tongue swiped across her clit and she hissed, her nails scraping into his scalp as she did. She was hot and sweet and delicious, and he found himself wondering why he hadn't let himself do this before, let himself get lost in the taste and feeling of Sypha on his tongue, on his lips. 

His head dipped, and he let his tongue just ease into her, slowly, carefully. She moaned again, her head falling back against the pillows, the drawn-out sound of her pleasure like music to his ears. He drew away just a little and her fingers in his hair pulled him back, her breaths rough as she kept him there.

He felt the mattress shift as Adrian's weight returned, and he heard the faint pop of a bottle unstoppering, and the clink of glass. A second later the faint scent of olives and lavender reached him, spreading through the air. Half his mind was focused on Adrian behind him, the other half focused on Sypha in front of him, her sighs and gasps and her hands in his hair. 

A hand unclenched from her hip and he spread her legs a little fuller, his tongue pressing to her clit, his finger slipping inside her as he did. She inhaled sharply, stilling as he carefully added another finger, curling then inside her, exploring her body, seeing what she liked, what she didn't. 

She sobbed out a breath when he slipped a third finger between her lips, his teeth gently worrying at her clit in tandem, playing her like an instrument, an instrument out of which he could coax any sound he wanted, just by pulling the right strings. She was moaning and moving beneath him, saying his name over and over, slurred and breathless. 

He stiffened when he felt Adrian's fingers again, now slick with oil. He squeezed his eyes shut, hissing as he felt the faint burn of it, of Adrian's fingers scissoring inside him. He felt him lean forward, pepper light, adoring kisses to the side of his throat, as if to assure him, and then he could practically feel a stretch as a second finger joined the first, then a third...

"Fuck, shit, shit, _fuck_..." 

He was gasping between Sypha's legs, his heart racing, burning pleasure curdling low in his stomach, making heat crest through him all the way down till his toes. He'd never felt this before, this sharp, hot feeling that made him nearly dizzy with a maddening blend of pleasure and pain. 

He pulled Sypha's legs over his shoulders, withdrawing his hands, gripping her thighs again. He'd had enough tasting. He wanted all of her. 

He tilted his head, leaned closer, parting his lips, sucking at her clit and swiping his tongue across her lips. She was rocking her hips into his teeth, her ankles locking behind his shoulders, sighing and moaning, saying, "God, yes, Trevor, don't stop, don't stop..."

Adrian's fingers were still stretching him, and the burn had faded, melting slowly into agonizing, hollow pleasure, one that curled at the base of his spine and sent slivers of sensation all over his body. It felt so fucking _good_ —but it still wasn't enough, he needed more— 

"Adrian," he managed to gasp, his head spinning. "You'd better give me—more than just fingers—or I'll fucking kill you—"

"Well, someone's eager." He dragged his nails down Trevor's back, knuckles brushing the grooves of his spine. "Be patient, darling." He leaned down, his voice low and soft in his ear. "I'll have you begging for mercy when I'm inside you soon enough," he purred, and he felt something in his stomach twist agreeably at the words. 

"We'll see," was all he said in reply, though it was breathless and strained and gave away just how much it had affected him, so it sounded less like a challenge and more like a plea. 

He heard a soft laugh, and then the pressure of his fingers vanished. He heard the clink of the vial again, heard Adrian set it back down onto the table, felt his fingers tangle in Trevor's hair a few seconds later, pulling him backward into position, steadying him. He felt a sudden flash of something almost like nerves; he'd never really done this before. 

Adrian seemed to sense it; he tugged on Trevor's hair until he surfaced from where he'd been devouring Sypha, giving him a small, reassuring peck on the lips. "Just relax," he murmured against his mouth. "You'll be fine."

He leaned in again, making sure to grasp Trevor's chin in one hand, kissing him thoroughly, sucking Sypha's taste off his lips and tongue as he did. He hummed gratifyingly into the kiss, drawing away a second later, and deliberately licked his lips, leaning back. 

He felt long fingers fist into his hair, his nails scraping into his scalp, his other hand splaying across Trevor's back, five warm lines on his skin. He shut his eyes, stilling as he felt Adrian lean forward, letting out a measured breath as he pulled him closer, the head of his cock pressing to Trevor's entrance, their bodies lining up. 

Trevor hardly had a second to brace himself before Adrian thrust into him, his hips snapping forward. He gasped at the feeling, the sudden, overwhelming fullness of it, the burn that was far too close to pleasure to be pain. His fingers tightened in Trevor's hair as he drew back, breathing hard. 

His next thrust had Trevor crying out, the feeling of it making his head spin and his heart slam in his chest. He heard himself say Adrian's name, a breathless litany of pleas and profanity spewing from his mouth, moans and gasps between Sypha's legs. Adrian's hands tilted his hips upwards, his cock hitting a spot inside him that made stars explode in his eyes. He gasped for breath, the beginnings of heat curling low in his stomach, spreading up his body. 

He heard Sypha's voice cry his name, her legs tightening bruisingly around his shoulders as she came apart under his hands, her back arching. Her fingers bit into his shoulder blades, surely breaking the skin, her breaths ragged. He eased her down with soft licks and gentle nips, coaxing her through her climax. 

Adrian's hips drove forward again and his hair spilled down his shoulders and over Trevor's back, a maddening counterpoint to the harshness of his breaths on his skin, the unforgivingly pleasurable friction of his body against Trevor's. He was beginning to lose control, he could tell—his thrusts were turning erratic, soft groans forcing themselves from his lips every time they collided, his nails raking down Trevor's back, scoring bloody lines on his skin. 

"God, Adrian, _fuck_ —" He gasped, his hands fisting in the sheets, hard enough for him to hear a rip. "Faster, please—"

Sypha leaned up, sliding down his body, her legs wrapping around his waist as she kissed him gently, her fingertips lingering on his cheeks. Her lips were soft where Adrian's thrusts were rough, her skin cool and frictionless where Adrian's was hot and dragging. The dichotomy of both of them dizzied him, his vision smearing into a blurry, shimmering haze.

Sypha's lips slid down his jaw, pressing light, adoring kisses to his skin. She mouthed at his hammering pulse, her tongue tracing over the line of his throat and making another wave of heat crest over him, trailing sparks of pleasure in its wake. She whispered his name, her hands in his hair, her lips trailing back up to meet his again. 

It was hot and heavy, her taste in his mouth and Adrian behind him, still taking him hard and fast, sweat slicking both their skin and every breath he dragged in catching in his throat. Sypha arched up, deepening the kiss, her tongue licking over his mouth and her her hands skimming up his sides. 

Sypha's lips slid across his, her breath hot on his, sending goosebumps breaking out on his skin, pleasure curling up inside him like slow, hot steam, writhing in on itself, coiling and uncoiling seamlessly. It lit the edges of his vision and it took his breath away, but there was something so _natural_ about it, something that told him that this was right, that this was good. That it was only with them that he could feel this, this deep-set feeling of ease inside him that felt like home. 

Adrian leaned down, a hand sliding down his back and smoothing up his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. His teeth grazed the arch of Trevor's shoulder and he felt the heat everywhere now, fire that licked up his whole body and left only ashes in its wake, blazing and blinding and beautiful. 

Adrian thrust into him again, his teeth closing over the curve between his neck and shoulder, just light enough to sting. He drew back, and Sypha's tongue curled around his, coaxing his lips apart further. She pressed herself to him, sighing into his mouth, the pressure at the base of his spine tightening with each breath, each kiss, each thrust of Adrian's hips. 

Sypha's fingers slid down his chest, her tongue still in his mouth as she shifted closer, one hand dictating the angle of his mouth as her other hand slowly wrapped around his cock, making him gasp against her lips, the world stilling for a moment. She smiled into the kiss, her teeth sliding along his upper lip as she leisurely slid her fingers over him, swallowing his moans and gasps, not stopping. 

It was all too much—one second he was there, between both of them and feeling everything like it was magnified a thousand times, and the next it all overflowed, his climax slamming into him so hard that he was blinded for a moment, his vision going momentarily white as what looked to him like stars and planets and galaxies exploded in front of his eyes. It crested over him from his toes upward, waves and waves of heat and cold and pleasure and slow feeling, each one leaving him more breathless than the last. 

It was slow, the way sunrises were slow—the first hints of gold on the horizon, the gradual, deliberate unfurling of color in the sky, and you didn't even know whether twenty seconds had passed or twenty years, but then suddenly the heavens blazed, gold and red and orange. It was brutal, and it seared your eyes, but it was beautiful and promising and spoke of new beginnings, something fresh, something better. 

He shuddered apart in their arms, and he thought he said their names, but he couldn't be sure. His feet touched the ground again and then he was back in his body, Sypha's lips gliding along his cheek, brushing his sweat-sticky hair out of his eyes as he came down. 

Adrian thrust into him one last time before he came apart right after, Trevor's name dragging itself from his throat on a moan. He stilled, his hands clenching in Trevor's hair hard as he felt liquid heat exploding inside him as he came. He pulled out a second later, rolling over onto his back beside Trevor, still breathing hard, as if he'd just run a great distance. 

Sypha curled up against his other side, and both of them were stretched out like cats, Adrian's arm thrown over his chest and Sypha's foot hooked over his knee. They stayed like that a little while, Trevor's arm curling loosely around Adrian's waist, his other arm brushing against Sypha's thigh. All he could hear was the sound of their breathing, slowing and steadying gradually. 

Finally Sypha broke the silence, burying her face into Trevor's shoulder. "I think you need to get new bedsheets," she said. 

There was a second's silence—and then Adrian started laughing, an arm thrown over his face, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. Trevor felt a grin tug at his own lips, and a moment later he was laughing too, face turned up towards the shifting shadows on the ceiling, tired down to the bone but in an amazingly good way. Sypha was giggling as well, and he felt it through his chest, where something loosened tangibly, something that had been uncomfortably tight inside him for so long he hadn't even noticed until then how burdening it had been. 

For a few minutes all he could hear was their laughter, Sypha's high and soft, Adrian's low and smooth. All three of them still a little disbelieving that the last few hours had actually happened, that it wasn't just a dream anymore, still high-strung from the realization and the exertion. They laughed until his throat was raw and his stomach ached, and then they sobered slowly, their giggles trailing off into a comfortable, easy silence that didn't erase the smiles on their faces. 

"In all seriousness, you do need new sheets," Adrian said, stretching languidly and draping himself all over Trevor. "And we all need a bath. We're filthy."

"In oh so many ways," Trevor said, turning his head to peck his lips. Adrian hummed, his head nestling into Trevor's shoulder. Sypha nodded, arms wrapping around his waist, dropping a kiss between his shoulder blades. "Maybe later," she said, and she sounded drowsy. 

"Later sounds nice," Trevor said, his own eyes closing. "But you both have to get in with me."

"That," Adrian said, his hair fanning out on Trevor's chest, burnished gold even in the dimness as he yawned, "sounds even nicer."

"I think I'm going to take a nap," Sypha mumbled, resting her head on his back, and he made a noise of assent, all he could manage with his eyes slipping shut. "Me too."

"I hope your walls are thick," Adrian said drowsily, and Trevor managed a soft laugh, his fingers tangling in Adrian's hair. He let himself relax into them both, tangled in both of them as it had been for days now, all of them entwined on his bed, dreaming in each other's arms. 

He fell asleep with the scent and the feeling of them all around him, surrounding him and telling him he was safe, telling him that here in their arms he was home. 

They would be all right.

* * *

He woke twice again over the next few hours.

The first time it was to Adrian's arms twining around him, deft tireless fingers between Trevor's legs. They made sure not to wake Sypha, peacefully asleep as she was, and they muffled each other's cries of pleasure in the space between their lips, Adrian's hips bucking into his, fingers biting into his shoulders. 

The second time, all of them were woken by the sunrise, the light it spilled into the room, rose gold. It began with the softest of blazes on the horizon, red and pink and soft orange. It was like ink dripping into water, the way color bloomed in the sky, the sun burning golden disk framed by it all, an angel with its pastel wings rising from behind the sky.

They watched the sunrise from his window, all draped across each other, in each other's arms and merely soaking in each other's presences. It was still not quite morning yet, still early. The room was barely lit, edges and shadows and angles, and they opened the curtains to let the dawn in and made love again, but this time it was slow and soft and all he remembered of it was sighs and skin and sinking into both of them, pleas and whispers. 

After, they took the pillows and blankets to the windowsill and curled up together on the surface, watching the sun come up, feeling it warm their sweat-cooled skin when its golden fingers crept onto the windowsill. It was still and calming and waiting, like the space between heartbeats; knowing it would end, but looking forward to the next. 

It was their own little pocket of bliss, and Trevor tucked the memory of it away, letting every single small detail embed itself into his mind; the curve of Sypha's throat as she rested her head on Adrian's shoulder, the way Adrian's hair caught the early morning light, how it made the golden strands shimmer as if they'd been dipped in dew. The way Sypha's fingers were twined with his, the feeling of their hands pressing together. The comfortable weight of Adrian's shoulder against his, the way they all seemed to lean into each other, gravitate towards each other as the world willed it to be. 

Sitting there with them, like that, with the world coming alive outside, and another world of its own coming alive inside him too—it made him think of how lucky he was, how grateful he was, and God, he loved them both so, so much. 

And so when the sunlight finally rested its warm, adoring hands on their faces, turning Adrian's eyes to honey and Sypha's hair to flame, he let himself hope, let himself wish for a second that this was how it could always be, that he could stay with them for the rest of his life and be happy with them, and never want anything else. 

"Tomorrow," he said, "we have to go back. We have to face her one last time."

"Are you sure?" was all Sypha asked. She didn't try to dissuade him, didn't delude him with concerned denial. He nodded. "It has to be tomorrow. We have to end it."

"Do you know how?" Adrian asked quietly. 

He hesitated. "I think so," he said. "But... I can't tell you, not until I'm sure I'm right. You're going to have to trust me."

Adrian turned his head, gently kissing his neck. "Okay," he whispered. 

"Do what you have to," Sypha said softly. "We will be there."

And he knew they would be, like they always were. Like they always would be. They would be there, and that was all he needed, all he would ever need. They were home to him now, because it was in their arms that he felt safe, felt cherished, felt _loved_. Because where else would he want to be, where else could he unravel and unspool and break apart, then come back together? 

They would be there, he knew. And what would come would come, and they would meet it when it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn, amirite?? 
> 
> So this chapter ended up being like 95% porn. I don't regret it though because this has come in like 188,000 words in and that is the slowest damn slow burn I've ever encountered, my writing or not. Also this chapter is the longest yet at like 10,200 words. Deal with it, I was starved for this as much as these three were.


	24. Snakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Snakes:** _Rebirth, transformation, immortality and healing, leaving behind pain and hardening against peril._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are these taking so long?! Sorry, school is sucking my soul out like a dementor. 
> 
> Some clickbait before you read this chapter: It has a fuckton of Trephacard, the Belmonts being a Family(tm) and features Harvey Two-Face from Batman.

**_Sypha_ **

Something was tickling her face. 

She broke the surface of consciousness, just barely. She felt warm blankets, soft against her skin—vaguely she registered that she wasn't wearing anything—and something warmer than the blankets settled around her waist, a heavy, comfortable weight. Her eyes were closed, but she could smell cinnamon and wood char, and that only meant one thing.

"Sypha, wake up." Trevor's voice filtered through the haze of sleep and warmth in her brain, soft and heavy with drowsiness as well. He must have just woken up, she thought distantly. 

She feigned sleep, remaining lax and limp, curious as to what he would do. She felt warm lips on her neck, felt him pressing soft, wet kisses to her skin. It was all she could do not to sigh as he pulled her closer, their skin pressing together. He was warm and radiated buttery, sleepy comfort. It was familiar already, the feeling of him there and close like that, an arm snug around her waist and his lips on her skin.

"Sypha?" His lips brushed the shell of her ear and she forced down a shiver. _Hmm,_ she thought as he kissed her cheek. There was really no need to wake up, she thought, not when Trevor was being affectionate.

He continued his path of kisses up her cheek, then up her jaw, following the line of it upward. She unconsciously tilted her head to allow him better access as his kisses trailed higher and higher, until—

She jerked backward, spluttering and sitting up with an indignant shriek. "You stuck your tongue in my ear!"

He grinned at her from where he was sprawled across the bed, the sheets tangled around his waist. "Yep."

"Ugh!" She threw a pillow at him, which he dodged easily. "That's disgusting."

"Got you up, didn't it?" He raised an eyebrow, still grinning at her. She made a face at him, crossing her arms. "It was still disgusting."

"I knew you were awake," he said with a shrug, stretching unabashedly with a sigh. "You couldn't stay in bed forever."

"Well, that ear thing was gross. Don't do it again."

"No?" He smirked at her, the familiar twist of his lips that made her either want to kiss him senseless or slap him senseless—she hadn't quite decided which one it was yet—and leaned forward, his lips finding her throat, sensation spiraling from the spot. "What about this?"

Her hands reached for him and then they were both sprawling across the mattress in a flurry of pillows and loose blankets, Trevor rolling Sypha onto her back underneath him as her arms wrapped around his shoulders. She pulled herself up to meet his lips, levering herself upward as his hands pressed to her back, holding her to him. It was a lazy, drowsy kiss, but it was still electrifying, still heady and made her head spin. 

She'd surprised herself with her own insatiability after the first night, finding herself unable to keep her hands off either of them for too long. They'd been only too happy to oblige, which had, during one rather unfortunate instance, led to the three of them in a broom closet with a broken chair wedged under the door handle and their hands over their mouths to avoid giving themselves away. 

They'd always managed to make it to a bedroom after that one, but if she looked back—which she did, often, admittedly—it hadn't been all that bad.

Trevor's fingers drew her leg over his hip and she hummed approvingly, turning and reversing their positions, with Trevor spread underneath her hands and her legs straddling his hips. He let her take control of the kiss, merely parting his lips to beckon her tongue into his mouth, his hands on her hips. 

Daylight streamed in through the windows, and it was all the warmer because of it. It must have been around midmorning, not quite noon yet. It was late—too late for them to be in bed—but they'd had a late night, so she had an excuse. 

She was just shifting to take him inside her when the door opened, making both of them jump. Trevor sat up hastily, throwing the blankets over both of them as Adrian walked in, fully dressed and a brow raised, three cups of tea balanced in his hands. He shut the door behind him with a heel, setting the cups on the table by the bed. 

"You know you can wait until you've at least brushed your teeth," he said, folding himself into a chair and nursing his own cup of tea. "At least."

"Where's the fun in that?" asked Trevor, pulling Sypha closer again. She rolled her eyes but obliged, relenting and allowing him a kiss. "This way we can ensure maximum filthiness before getting clean."

"Ingenious," said Adrian dryly. 

"I agree," said Sypha, wrapping her arms around Trevor's neck, leaning closer so that their noses brushed against each other. He leaned in for another kiss and she smiled, feeling his lips mold to hers easily. If this was love, she had all she could ever want. She would never need anything else. 

He pulled away a few minutes later, leaning his forehead against hers, eyes closed. She sighed happily, her fingers lacing with his, feeling the familiar warmth of his hand against hers. Sometimes it was easy to get lost in this, in both of them, so easy that she forgot that this still wasn't over, that Aalis was still there, that she still needed to be killed and put to rest. 

But she was, and it lingered constantly at the edge of her thoughts, like a black veil that shrouded the bliss of the past two days, made the smile slip off her face whenever she thought about it. There was still so little they knew, and so little they had done so far...

"Hey," Trevor's voice said, cutting through the musing, brooding fog in her brain. She felt him lean close and press a butterfly-soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, his lashes tickling her cheeks. "You look like you've just swallowed a lemon. Is my morning breath really that bad, or is there something on your mind?"

She laughed a little, putting her head on his shoulder. "Just... thinking about her," she said, and she felt him sigh. "How we're going to do what we're going to do, and that we still know so little."

"I told you to trust me," he said, his fingers on her back drawing slow, hot circles on her hip. "That's got to hold. I know what to do. Okay?" He gently tipped her face up and raised en expectant eyebrow at her, and she caved with a sigh, nodding. "Okay, but—"

He leaned in, swallowing her words with a small kiss. "No buts."

"But—"

He kissed her again and she laughed against his lips, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she surrendered, letting her eyes fall shut as she allowed the warmth and solidity of him sweep her away. His skin was almost hot underneath her hands, and she could feel his strength through it, hard, unyielding muscle beneath smooth skin that she'd familiarized herself with over the past few days, every inch of which she'd kissed and touched and revered. 

She resurfaced for air and opened her mouth to speak when he tugged her back, smothering her with another kiss. She acquiesced grudgingly before pulling away again, and had taken exactly one breath when he shook his head, and then she was sprawling across the covers, with Trevor rolling on top of her, knees on either side of her hips as his lips captured hers again. 

"Mmh— _Trevor_ —" She grabbed a fistful of his hair and gasped for breath, glaring at him. "You idiot," she managed to say, and he grinned at her, swooping down to kiss her neck. "What is it, love?"

She sighed, fingers stilling in his hair. "About... about Aalis... are you sure...?"

"For God's sake." He lifted his head from where his tongue had been tracing a slow, hot line up the column of her throat, rolling his eyes. "I know my plans aren't usually the best or the brightest, but this time I actually fucking know what I'm doing. It isn't just a hunch—or maybe it is, a little, but it's going to work."

"And if it doesn't?" She raised an eyebrow. 

He shrugged, reaching behind him as if to grab something, his eyes darkening. A second later she gasped when she felt him ease into her slowly, her hands tightening in his hair as he lowered himself over her gently, their lips just brushing achingly softly. She felt his mouth move against hers when he spoke, his breath warm and making a shiver race up her spine. 

"Then," he said, starting to move, "you get to say 'I told you so'."

* * *

Sypha shouldered the door open, and abruptly all conversation ebbed, the whole room going quiet the moment the door clicked.

She and Adrian never usually went to the dining room when the whole family was there, even though sometimes Marie asked them to go. She knew they'd be welcomed, and treated warmly, but there was always something too personal and too strongly forged in blood for her and Adrian to truly feel like a part of it. 

So she declined politely every single time, instead offering to go watch over Trevor while he slept, or calling it an early night and heading to bed, or joining Adrian on one of the cool marble balconies that ringed the outside of the manor, standing with him at the rail and merely watching the sky unfold above them as night took hold, watching the stars appear like pinpricks of ice above them. 

So naturally it must have seemed unusual at the least to see her there, a little pink in the cheeks and a little awkward maybe, standing at the door with Trevor's family gazing at her with wide eyes. She stepped aside to allow Adrian to move into the room beside her, also looking a bit embarrassed under all the attention.

He stepped aside as well, rubbing the back of his neck as he did. They both glanced behind them, and so did all eight Belmonts, identical curious expressions on all their faces, merely accentuating the resemblance between them all. All their eyes widened when they looked past them and at Trevor, who was standing between Adrian and Sypha with a slightly wide-eyed look on his face. 

There was a second's silence—and then there was a sudden flurry of movement and exclamations and the sound of their chairs scraping backward against the floor. There were eight blurs that shot past her and Adrian, all coalescing into Trevor's sisters, who launched themselves onto him with ecstatic shrieks of delight. 

He staggered back under the sudden assault, laughing but not resisting, letting them engulf him in a tangle of limbs and long hair. It was the first time they'd seen him not in bed or asleep or covered in bandages, and that morning Adrian had deemed him fit for going outside and no longer being confined to his room. 

They were all talking at once, asking and tutting and laughing, ruffling his hair and gently brushing their hands over the scar on his face, murmuring about how ragged it looked, but they didn't care because it showed everyone how brave their littlest brother was. He looked a little overwhelmed and a little touched, his eyes wide and a bit misty, but he didn't seem to be able to stop the grin that had spread across his face. 

Sypha and Adrian exchanged a glance over the little crowd, Adrian's eyes soft, a little smile curling his lips. No matter what lay ahead, at least there was this—Trevor was okay, he was with his family, they were together. It could have been temporary, but she didn't let herself worry about what might happen next.

His parents followed more slowly, waiting for their daughters to climb off him before moving to stand facing their only son, saying nothing. He glanced at them—down at his mother, up at his father—and he smiled, just a little, and it was like seeing the sun come out from behind the clouds after a rain that had lasted a thousand years.

"Hey mum," he said, his voice a bit thick. "Hey dad."

Marie sobbed, rushing forward and throwing her arms around her son, crushing him in her grip as she pressed her forehead to his chest. He caught her, folding her into his arms, small as she was. He buried his face into his mother's hair, his eyes screwed shut, and his hands as they clutched her to him were shaking. 

"I'm all right, I'm all right, I'm here," he was saying, and she was still sobbing, her shoulders heaving. Her husband stepped forward, putting his arms around them both, a small, tight little knot of relief and comfort and solace. She was reminded with a sudden, wistful pang of her own parents, how much she often craved for them like this, that safety that only family could bring you. 

She felt the hot, pricking press of tears behind her eyes and blinked rapidly, looking away and down at the floor instead. It was almost as if she were intruding on something not meant for her eyes, something private and so choked with raw emotion that she could almost feel it, rolling off them in waves. 

Finally after Marie's tears slowed she drew back, wiping her eyes, one hand still gripping Trevor's arm as though she were afraid he would disappear if she wasn't holding onto some part of him. She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and still swimming. 

"Young man," she said distinctly, squeezing his arm, "you are in _so much_ trouble."

He laughed, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer, dropping a little kiss onto the top of her head. "I know," was all he said. 

She gave a weak, watery little laugh, sniffling. "Just you wait until you get back from whatever you need to do. You won't be able to leave this house for another century."

"Anything you say, mother," he vowed solemnly, but he ruined the effect by grinning at her, and her stern look back was similarly ruined as she laughed and shook her head. "Now eat something, I'm sure you're starving."

"Always hungry for your food, you know it," he said, swooping down to kiss her cheek as he moved towards the table, arm in arm with her. She laughed again, and it was looser, easier this time. "Ever the charmer, aren't you? Don't think I'm going soft with age, I can still ground you."

Sypha caught Adrian's eye and he nodded a little, and they made to leave the room, to slip out unnoticed perhaps, while they were talking and laughing, allow Trevor to be with his family again after so long, talk to them and tell them what happened and let them stay together as they should be. 

"Sypha, Adrian," called Marie's voice, and they both turned, startled, Adrian's fingers stilling on the doorknob. She raised an eyebrow at them from where she was standing by the table, a hand on her hip. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I—we—" Adrian looked at Sypha briefly, blushed, and looked away again. "We thought... I mean... perhaps it would be best if we came back later...?"

"Nonsense." She moved briskly toward them, putting a gentle hand on their backs as they protested weakly, steering them towards the table again. "You've helped our family more than we can ever repay you with, and—well." She smiled at them. "Maybe one day I can have the honor of calling you daughter and son."

Trevor glanced up at her, startled and even a little disbelieving almost, a hesitant look on his face that told Sypha that there had been a lot he hadn't told them about what his parents might have expected from him that he knew he couldn't give. "But—you said I had to—"

"Well, I still expect grandchildren," said Marie blithely, glancing at Sypha appraisingly, a brow raised and a glimmer in her eye, "and the name does have to be carried forward... but if there is one thing that this mess of a situation has done good for, it's telling me that sometimes you should let your children be happy." She sighed. "Let them choose who to give their heart to and accept it."

There was silence; a waiting, expectant pause that stretched on for what felt like twenty years and twenty seconds all at once. Finally, Marie broke it again, looking at Adrian and Sypha, her eyes unnaturally bright. "Well, aren't you two going to sit down?"

Which was how, five minutes later Sypha found herself squeezed in between one of Trevor's sisters and Adrian on the overflowing dining table. Sitting there, listening to the conversation and the laughter that flowed freer than water, feeling Adrian's fingers lacing with hers under the table as they ate, she wondered how exactly she had gotten there. 

Not even a year ago she was with her tribe, in her caravan, traveling across Wallachia, without a roof over her head with the wilderness as her home. She had been wary of love and wary of staying put, wary of what settling might bring her. She wanted a life like the one her parents had led—perhaps she would find a boy in another train somewhere and fall in love with him, love him enough to tie herself to him and start a family. 

She had never looked, not really, believing that love found you, not the other way around. But she had not expected it to find her in the woods, listening to strains of conversation in the wind and creeping along behind the silhouettes of two men in the trees. She hadn't expected it to find her in the village square, in the lily tucked into a golden braid, nor did she expect to it to find her between towering shelves filled with books, cached in the pages of an age-old bestiary filled with gleaming ink and a familiar scrawl. 

And, least of all did she expect it to find her here, now, sitting at the table with Trevor's family, listening to Gabriel Belmont make a terrible joke that made all his children groan and beg him to stop and made his wife roll her eyes but smile at him with all the tenderness of one who would never tire of hearing his voice. But it did find her there, and she opened herself to it, let it find her and let it leave her breathless. 

She felt Adrian's fingers squeeze hers lightly and was broken from her wistful revelation, turning to look at him. The warm yellow light from the lamps overhead made a soft halo of golden light wreath his head, crowning his hair. He smiled at her, that curious little smile that she had fallen in love with all those months ago but hadn't realized. 

"What are you thinking about?" He raised their entwined hands to his lips, pressing a slow, soft kiss to her knuckles. "You look a million miles away."

She shook her head. "It's... it's nothing. I was just thinking."

"About?"

"This. Us. Everything." She sighed, shaking her head. "So much has happened since that night we met in the forest. I was just wondering how so much everything has changed since then."

His smile turned a little lopsided. "For the better, I hope?"

She laughed. "Definitely. In ways both bitter and sweet. But imagine if we hadn't chosen to stop at the village, and if we'd chosen to stop at a city instead." The thought made her head spin. "None of this would have happened."

"Well then." The curve of his lips radiated easygoing charm. "I'm sure we should all be properly grateful to whoever decided to stop there."

"Mmhmm." She rested her chin on the back of her hand, elbow balanced on the table, gazing at him with her head tilted. She'd have liked to kiss him, but with Trevor's family right there, it wasn't looking like an amazing idea at the moment. She made a mental note to make up for it later that night. 

"Speaking of," she sighed, looking away from him with difficulty (that stupid halo of light was still glowing gently behind him, and it made her want to jump him) and back at the table in front of her. "I need to go back to the village."

"What?" He sounded outraged, the dreamy smile slipping off his face and crashing on the floor, replaced by haughty indignation. "No, you can't. I won't let you go back there, not when you could run into the—"

"Adrian." She exhaled, gritting her teeth against the memory that threatened to rise up behind her eyes, the one she'd forced down time after time. It always crept up on her whenever Adrian or Trevor touched her, fingers skating up the inside of her thighs, the same path she'd felt her robes tear, right up the side. Gripped in the deacon's fingers, his other hand pinning her wrists and that mad, wild, unhinged look in his eyes, that hunger that had made nausea rise in her throat—

She shut her eyes, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to cut through the toxic, burning fog of memories in her head. It was easy enough to shut off in bed, when all she could feel was heat and heady pleasure, seeing Adrian and Trevor above her, so familiar that it chased away the lingering panic and the phantom hands of the deacon, caging her against the cold, damp stone wall of the alleyway. 

"I have to see if my family is all right," she said, opening her eyes, met with those wide golden eyes she knew so well, easing some of the panic. "I have to see what happened to them. It's been two weeks almost, they might have been chased away or—or hurt, by..."

His eyes softened at the hitch in her voice and the way her sentence trailed off. His fingers tightened on hers, a grounding gesture, one that anchored her. "Have you told Trevor? About... about that night?"

She swallowed hard. "Not yet."

"You should. Get it off your chest. I know how much it must haunt you, and you can't talk to me because I was there, and I stopped you."

"No, it's not—"

"I understand." And she could tell by the look in his eyes, the softness of his voice, that he did. "I can't imagine how you must be feeling, but I understand why you can't talk to me. But that's why we have Trevor. Tell him, and we'll go. We'll all go. Today."

She exhaled. "Okay."

He smiled at her. "It will pass," he said. "Maybe not fully, but it will pass. We'll be here."

Something in her heart gave way, and somehow she found the strength to smile back at him, and it was startlingly genuine. "I know," she said.

* * *

"I'll kill him." Trevor's voice was still, calm almost. It made the hairs on the back of her neck rise, the way they rose whenever the air charged before an explosion of lightning cracked down from the churning sky. "I'll rip his fucking hands off for touching you—"

"Trevor," she sighed. "There's no point. It's over now, and I can't do anything about it. It happened, and it's f—"

"It's not fine," he snapped. He had listened to what she had to say without moving or interrupting, and even now she couldn't see anything in his eyes but for something white-hot and dangerous that scared her more than anything, though she didn't fear for herself. 

"I have to go back—"

"No," he said. 

She sighed. "Trevor..."

"Why didn't you say it sooner?" His voice was still even, sangfroid. He was beginning to scare her in earnest now. She hesitated, uneasy for some reason. "You were weak, Trevor, I didn't want to make it any worse. You'd already gone through so much—"

"Not this. Not now. Before. You said he's been giving you trouble for months now. Why didn't you mention it?"

She looked down at her hands in her lap, feeling chastised for some reason. She had never seen this Trevor, this authoritative still-faced Trevor whose voice was sharper than the crack of his whip and whose eyes were entirely cold and unforgiving. The scar across his eye looked livid under the golden light, shadows gathering at the hollows of his cheekbones and jaw.

"I... didn't think it was important. Not when there was Aalis and... and everything else..." Her voice was growing smaller and smaller by the second. 

Now, finally, she could see some emotion in his face—anger, she thought, making his jaw tighten and his eyes blaze. She couldn't help but shrink away from him a little, away from that look on his face she hardly recognized. "It doesn't matter," he said. "If you'd just opened your mouth and fucking _said something_ this might not have happened—"

"Trevor, don't shout at her," said Adrian, who was lounging on the windowsill, probably attempting to blend into the shadows there. His eyes gleamed from the dimness like twin flames, his hair a pale waterfall. "It isn't her fault."

"No, I—I should have said something," said Sypha, her voice still so small she could hardly hear herself. "I know it was stupid of me, but there was so much more to think about."

"If you're going back, you're taking us with you," Trevor said. "Both of us. Otherwise you're not going. I won't let you."

And, finally—a spark of something like irritation, unfairness, made her lift her face and glare at him, matching his stare. "You won't _let_ me?" Her own voice was sharp now, growing louder, stronger. "Since when do I take permission from you to do what I want to?"

"Since now." He narrowed his eyes. "There's no way you're going back there alone."

She'd planned on taking them with her anyway, but she still sat up straighter, feeling her shaking hands clench into fists. "Why? You think I can't handle myself against one man? You think I can't do what I have to?"

"No," he said. "But if you run into him and you freeze, then I don't know what's going to happen."

"I won't freeze," she said through clenched teeth. 

"You can't be sure of that."

"I—"

"That's enough," Adrian said, sliding off the windowsill and moving over to sit on the bed beside Sypha. "Sypha, we will both come with you even if you don't like it, it's safer for us all. If the deacon has managed to convince the whole village that you're a witch, then they'll kill you on sight. You might be able to hold your own against a few people, but not the whole village."

He put a gentle hand on her arm. "And no matter how unfair it is, they trust Trevor and me, but they don't trust you. If we come with you it's the safest option."

He turned to Trevor. "She has the right to make her own decisions, Trevor—and I know you're concerned, but we can't shackle each other with that concern. Sometimes it's best to let people take their own paths."

Trevor and Sypha both crossed their arms and looked away from each other, both glaring at the wall. Adrian sighed, muttering something that sounded like "God, why does it always have to be me" and stood, looking down at both of them. "Right. We're leaving in an hour. If the both of you can stop sulking and pouting like children throwing tantrums by then, then we can be back fast."

He swept from the room, shutting the door behind him with an audible click. Sypha sneaked a glance at Trevor, who was still looking away from her, albeit with a slightly guilty look on his face. She debated with herself briefly whether to say something or not and was just opening her mouth to speak when—

"Sorry I shouted," muttered Trevor, still not looking at her. "I just—I was just so pissed off. I can't believe you had to go through that and I didn't even know..."

"Treffy," she said, turning and taking his hand. He gave in after a moment, his fingers tangling with hers. "I know. I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have kept quiet. It just seemed so insignificant compared to Aalis and everything that was going on with her."

"Not to us." He lifted his face to meet her gaze, and she swallowed hard, saying nothing. That cold, blazing-blue-fire anger had dissipated, and he was just her Trevor again, his lips tilted down in concern and that single lock of hair that fell across his face that she loved to curl a finger around, and now with the scar across his eye that had already become familiar to her. 

He tugged her closer and she put her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. His arm came around her shoulders, holding her to him. She could feel his breath on the curve of her neck when he spoke again. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She remembered what Adrian had said earlier that day, how she couldn't tell him what she could tell Trevor. She took a deep breath, biting her lip hard enough to break the skin. She had to make her way past that memory now. She had to let go of it. She felt the familiar choking feeling of the memory tighten like a noose around her neck and forced it down, taking a shaky breath. 

"It was just... so unexpected," she said, and it was on an exhale of breath. "I know I should have anticipated it, but I didn't. I was totally unprepared." 

He said nothing—the same way he had said nothing when she had talked about her parents. But this time he was close, his breath warm against her hair and his heart beating against her shoulder. She shut her stinging eyes, turning her face further into his chest. 

"I would have killed him," she said suddenly, abruptly. "I wanted to. I wanted to, so badly. I wanted to watch him burn, watch him die. I wanted him to know I had done it, and I wanted him to look at me as I killed him."

She felt Trevor tense ever so slightly against her and sighed. "If Adrian hadn't come, then I would have. He... I came to my senses once he was there. It was just a moment of madness after the shock, but—" She hesitated. "For a second I..."

Her words trailed off, uncertain and uneasy, and Trevor's arm tightened around her, his lips brushing her temple, just barely. "What?"

"For a second I thought I would even kill Adrian if I had to, if only to see that man die." She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath catching in her throat. "I almost wanted to."

"You were in shock," Trevor said. "You weren't thinking straight. It happens sometimes. Believe me, I know."

She exhaled shakily. "I felt horrible when I thought it," she said. "That's when my brain caught up with everything, and I realized where I was and what I could—would—have done. It was just... too much."

"Adrian came. He was there. That's all that matters. You can't afford to drag yourself down with the weight of what could have been. Look at what happened to Aalis because she did that. She tied herself to everything that didn't happen, and she rotted from the inside out. It's powerful, the pull of your mistakes and what you did wrong, what almost happened. If you give it too much, it'll take just as much out of you."

She lifted her head. "Why is it," she said, her voice slightly uneven, "that whenever you talk to me about something I tell you, everything seems to clear in my head and make me feel better?"

"It's my natural charm," he said, smiling down at her without a shred of guile, and she couldn't help the little smile that tugged at her own lips in response. "You're a wise man, Trevor Belmont."

"That makes it sound like I'm an old fortune-teller," he said, and she laughed. "Well, if you are, then you're _our_ old fortune-teller," she said, leaning up, and his smile tilted into a smirk as he pulled her closer, their lips meeting. "That I am," he said against her mouth, and somewhere in her heart she found the courage to laugh as he kissed her, and she closed her eyes and let it wash everything away. 

They both jumped when the door opened with a sudden, loud click, breaking apart hastily. She heard a frustrated sigh, and then Adrian's voice said, "Honestly, it's like you can't decide between fighting and—"

"Fucking?" Trevor asked blithely, blinking up at Adrian innocently. 

"Crudely put, but yes." Adrian made an irritated sound. "We're still leaving in an hour. You'd better be decent by the time I get back so that we can leave."

"No promises," Trevor said, and Sypha reached out, grabbing Adrian's hand. "Or," she suggested sweetly, "you could join us. Then you can make sure we're decent before we leave." She smiled at him and he rolled his eyes. 

"You're both such idiots." He shrugged off his coat, kicking his boots off and pulling his shirt over his head as he climbed nimbly onto the bed between Trevor and Sypha. "In an hour I'll make sure neither of you can walk straight," he promised, pushing them down onto their backs onto the mattress, leaning above them. 

"You can try," Sypha grinned, "but an hour isn't too much time for us both."

Adrian's grin was a flash of white and gold in the semidarkness. "We'll see."

* * *

True to his word, Adrian ravished both Trevor and Sypha so forcefully that she felt the lingering ache of it when they left the manor, a dull sort of soreness between her legs that hurt in an unfairly good way. She'd had to pull her collar up to hide the marks his teeth had left on her throat as well, and she thought he looked smugger than usual as they walked out the gates, noting the way they winced as they walked. 

"Bastard," Trevor muttered as they moved through the trees. "It's your stupid vampire mojo strength and constant horniness. You're just fucking insatiable. You're lucky you have two of us, or you'd wear one of us out."

Adrian laughed. "I'll teach you to keep up. You'll get used to it."

"I can't decide whether that was a threat or a proposition," Sypha said after a pause. "I think I'll take it as option B."

"Me too," Trevor muttered. 

"It was neither," Adrian said easily. "Merely a promise. Your bodies will eventually get used to mine and what I can give."

"That sounds weirdly ominous," Trevor said after a second, his cheeks a little pink. "Can we please focus on the actual problem and not our sex life?"

Sypha snorted as Adrian rolled his eyes. "It's a perfectly normal thing to talk about, and important too owing to the fact that we're numbered three and not two, and that I'm half-vampire. And you have no reason to act like a blushing virgin, you know, you've seen both of us naked—"

"Now is so not the time to talk about this," Trevor said, blushing properly now. "And plus, I was raised to be a proper noble, while your mother is a doctor"—he raised a brow at Adrian—"and you come from a tribe of people where God knows what happens in those caravans in the middle of nowhere—"

Sypha burst out laughing. "Well, your concerns are perfectly valid," was all she said, and Trevor groaned. Adrian shot her a grin, his face striped in gold and black like a tiger's where the sunlight slanted down through the trees. 

They finally cleared the forest half an hour later, all still bickering happily, the sky unfolding above them, bright blue and cloudless. The gravel crunched beneath her sandals and she kicked a few stray pebbles that had escaped beneath her feet as they walked along, the smoke from chimneys and the glow of the village rising gently over the horizon directly ahead. 

As they neared it her heart started to race, anticipation crawling up her spine, making her steps quicken as they approached. She had no idea what was going to happen, she didn't even know if she would see them, if they had already been chased away, maybe even tracked down and hurt, killed even—

She caught sight of the caravan on the edge of the road and felt relief flood her so overwhelmingly that her knees buckled and every breath rushed out of her lungs. She stumbled and fell backwards, and she felt Adrian catch her before she could fall. Each lungful of air was easier than the last, her head spinning. 

"They're here," she heard herself say, shutting her eyes for a moment. "They're here, they're not gone." 

"Come on, let's go inside," Trevor said, pulling Sypha's hood over her hair, covering her face. "Quickly."

They moved towards the caravan, fetching up at its door. Sypha pulled the door open without thinking, stepping inside, her hood falling back as she did. She registered the familiar scent of the place, dust and books and incense, and saw upturned, surprised faces leaping out at her—and then she saw her grandfather, eyes wide and lips parting, heard him say her name. 

She surged forward, throwing her arms around him, and he caught her up against him, enveloping her in the familiar scent of him, her muscles relaxing invariably at the comforting weight of his arms around her. She shut her eyes, breathing him in, the familiarity and safety of family washing over her. 

"Sypha, where on earth were you?" he was asking, relief evident in his shaking voice. She exhaled, closing her eyes. "I had to leave," she said. "I was at Trevor's house, and he was gone, and we had to bring him back. I was there, but I couldn't stand not knowing whether you were safe or not—"

"The Bishop said we were to stay under his command," her grandfather said. "But Sypha, angel, you must leave. Now."

She drew away, feeling her brows draw together. "But... why?"

"They come here every day, every morning, to see whether you've come back, the deacon sends priests and sometimes if we have ill fortune he comes here himself. Today they did not come in the morning, so they can be here any minute. Whatever happened that night, Sypha, he has lost his mind because of it, he has become something else—"

"Sypha!" Adrian's panicked voice shattered the stillness of the air from outside the caravan, making her jump. "Sypha, get out of there! Run!"

Her grandfather's face was ashen. "They're here. Leave, quickly."

She backed out of the caravan, grabbing the edge of the doorframe for balance. "I'll come back," she said. "Once we kill her, once it's done—we'll come back—"

He nodded, gesturing, an indescribable sadness on his face. "Now go, quickly."

She turned on her heel, stumbling down the steps of the caravan. She was hardly looking where she was going, and gasped when she collided with someone's chest, someone who was standing just at the bottom of the steps. She staggered backwards a step, nearly tripping over the stairs. She looked up, and her stomach turned over. 

"There you are," the archdeacon said, smiling at her. "I've been waiting for you for a very long time, Sypha Belnades. Very long indeed."

* * *

He was hideous. 

Her fire had done more damage than she had thought, having licked up his chest and arms and shoulders, up to his neck and his face. He was once again dressed in his sweeping black deacon's robes, his eyes gleaming their usual flinty gray, the sunlight slanting down directly onto his face. 

His face...

There were horrible, ugly livid burns on his skin, which was cracked and charred. The fire Sypha's fear and rage had brought forth had burned his face beyond repair, rendering him nearly unrecognizable. His eyes bulged in sockets forced too wide, his cheeks hollowed by the pulped, flaking skin that would never regenerate. The burns continued down to his throat and chest, where she could see the damage was even worse, his skin nearly entirely gone. 

His smile was a grisly, macabre slash, splitting his face open. His upper lip had been almost entirely eaten away by the flame, and she felt nausea clench in her stomach. She swallowed hard, her heart slamming in her chest. 

"Look what you did," he said, still smiling at her. _Whatever happened that night, he has lost his mind because of it, he has become something else,_ her grandfather had said. Perhaps his face was not all her fire had destroyed, she thought distantly. 

_"Look what you did!"_ he screamed, and she flinched back, a different kind of fear trickling down her spine—a fear born from disgust and knowing that something in his mind had snapped that night. There was no predicting a madman. 

He lifted a hand to his face, as if to trace the lines the burns had drawn on his skin, uneven patches of charred skin in a sort of ghastly patchwork. "Your disgusting witchcraft did this to me, your witch magic has done this to me."

"I—I didn't know—" she choked out. "I didn't realize it had—"

"You would have let it kill me," he said. "I saw it in your eyes. You wanted to kill me, wanted to finish the job." He gestured at his face again and a fresh wave of revulsion rolled over her. She still couldn't quite believe that she had done so much damage, disfigured him so hideously. 

"I—I don't—"

"Shut _up,"_ he hissed, gritting his teeth. "I have been waiting for you to come back ever since you ran away like the cowardly bitch you are, tail between your legs. I knew you would come back. And now here you are." 

He spread his arms wide, and she could do nothing but stare, disbelieving. What had she done?

"Now," he said, turning in a slow circle, arms still flung wide as if he were the ringmaster of some horrible circus, standing to announce the final act with all the gravity of a showman to his audience—Trevor and Adrian, held back by three or four priests, her family, and the village, having gathered around them in a loose crowd. "Now you will understand what I went through that night. Now you will burn for burning me, but this time there will be nobody to stop me."

"Now," he said, "now you will burn on a stake as the witch you are."

"I'm not a witch," she said, and her voice was remarkably steady. "I'm—"

"I don't give two damns what you are," he said. "You will die for your crimes."

"My crimes? You mean self-defense?" She stood up straight, looking directly into his nightmarish mess of a face. "Everyone knows what happened to you that night, archdeacon. But they don't know what you did to me. I'm sure you conveniently left it out to make your story more pitiful, to paint me as the one who did wrong."

She stepped forward, and to her surprise, he stepped back, something almost like fear in his eyes. Of course—of course he would be afraid. It had been her will and her hands that had done this to him. She felt a sort of bitter pity and sadness in her chest, but she pressed the advantage, taking another step forward. 

"You tried to rape me," she said, and the words were ugly and tarnished and bitter, souring the air and making it hard to breathe past the memory of it, the way it still kept her up at night sometimes. "I did nothing to you, and you tried to violate me just because you made a fool of yourself because of me. There is no excuse, no pity, for what you tried to do."

The priests standing behind the deacon shared uneasy glances, and she saw Adrian slip out of their grasps, turning and shoving through the crowd away from her, vanishing into the throng unnoticed. Before she could even wonder where he had gone the deacon stepped across her line of sight, hands in fists at his sides. 

"Lies," he said. "I did nothing of the sort."

"No?" It wasn't as if she hadn't expected this, but she still felt the familiar tug of sadness that people could act so callously in self-preservation. "Then how do you explain this?" She swept her robes aside, a ringmaster of her own now, putting on a show for the gathered people. The rip in her robes shone like an accusation, clear as day as she pulled her robes aside, baring the evidence for everyone to see.

He glared at her. "There is no proof that was done by me."

She shrugged. "It is not you that I have to convince."

As if realizing for the first time that there were people standing there gathered around them he spun around, eyes wide. The people were gazing at him, their eyes cold and hard. He clenched his jaw, looking back at her. "You will not get away with this," he snarled, spit flying from his mouth, and in that moment he looked like even more of a monster than Aalis. 

"I won't get away with anything," she said. "It's just about what's fair."

"Nothing in life is fair," he hissed. "I will see you burn, or I will—"

"Archdeacon." 

The cold, authoritative voice of the Bishop cut through the deacon's shout, brutally. He whirled around, and the crowd parted to allow the Bishop to walk through, a familiar tall, pale figure at his side, disheveled and still-faced. Adrian caught her eye and gave her a single, curt nod, and with a sudden rush of understanding she realized where he had gone, and why he was there. Relief and gratitude sluiced through her, and she nodded back. 

"Bishop," the deacon snarled through clenched teeth, all his earlier respect and false reverence gone. "You've come just in time for the show." He reached out, grabbing Sypha and holding her against him tightly. She cried out, struggling against his grip, and she thought she could smell rotting skin standing this close to him, disgust roiling in her stomach. 

"Let her go, deacon," the Bishop said sharply. "Unhand her."

He bared his teeth, gripping Sypha's arms more tightly rather than releasing her. "But Bishop," he said, "you don't want to miss this, it's the final act of the show." He dragged her closer, his forearm slanting across her throat as he held her to him. She choked, raising a hand instinctively, fingers wrapping around his arm. 

She allowed the tiniest bit of heat creep into her fingers, willing her magic to just touch the surface of her skin. She knew it was a cruel move, but she needed to breathe; his grip was beginning to block her air. He tensed, then shouted as the magic touched him, leaping back and away from her. She gasped for breath, blinking rapidly through eyes watering with pain and exertion. 

A second later Trevor was there, pulling her back. She let him, feeling everything as if it were all happening in a dream. She sagged back against him and he held her up with a protective arm around her waist, his other hand straying to his hip, where she knew the Morning Star was looped. 

The Bishop walked over to the archdeacon, gazing impassively into his scarred, mutilated face. "You have overstayed your welcome by far," he said. "I think it is time for you to leave here."

The deacon stared at him, his face going slack. "What?"

"I think I made myself sufficiently clear," the Bishop said. "I want you to leave. Return to Targoviste, perhaps. Although not as a deacon. You have been stripped of your titles and robes, and you cannot go to the cathedral for aid. I will send a message to the Bishop there, informing him of your crimes."

The deacon was breathing hard. "This... this is because of her," he said. "This is because of that stupid girl. If she had not come here—"

"If she had not come here then we would know nothing of what you have done behind the back of the Church," the Bishop said coldly. "Give me your robes, deacon, and nobody will call you that ever again." He held out a hand. 

The deacon looked at Sypha—and there was something venomous in his eyes that made unease shiver down her spine. He reached up, tearing his robes off. Underneath he wore a plain button-down shirt and trousers, and she remembered that night in the alleyway, when he hadn't been wearing his robes. He looked so ordinary without them, but now his face was so hideously burned that nothing would ever look ordinary on him ever again. 

But more evident than the scars on his face was the madness in his eyes, the blazing, shrieking madness that looked as though a thousand tortured souls were writhing in his irises, screaming for release and freedom. They were iron pits, bars, cages. She shivered as he looked at her, but held his stare. 

He walked up to her, stiffly. Trevor's arm tightened around her waist as he did, but he didn't touch her, merely looked down at her, his face expressionless. She looked back at him, feeling oddly as though this was not the last time she would see him. 

"I know that thing in the forest isn't dead," he said, his voice low. "I know you haven't killed it yet."

She said nothing. 

"I'll kill it myself," he said, a fanatic razor sharpening his voice, making the words drip blood. "I'll bring its body back so we can nail it to the church door and I'll be welcomed back with banners and song. I'll be hailed as a hero, and I can unseat that deluded old man and I'll be Bishop. And then..." He grinned, his teeth startlingly white against the black and red of his burned skin. "Then I'll set you on fire, little girl. And I'll hear you scream and I'll make your two lovers watch while you burn."

He spat at her feet, then turned and walked away without looking back, vanishing into the forest within moments. The trees swallowed him whole until he was gone, nothing left but the wind that whistled through their branches, making them creak and sway and rustle with a strange sound that sounded almost like laughter. 

She gazed after him, still and quiet even as the crowd around them roared and cheered and came forward and finally thanked her, told her how grateful they were. Yet she was deaf to it all, her eyes still locked on the spot where the deacon had vanished into the woods. 

Now... now Aalis was not the only monster in those trees. Now, all that was left was to wait and see which one would get to her first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol that last line is probably one of my favorite last lines of a chapter in this whole story.


	25. Crowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Crowns:** _Immortality, righteousness, resurrection and victory, honor and pride to one's family or country._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has it really been only a week?! And this chapter is... *checks draft* 11,000 words long!! I am not, contrary to my earlier belief, useless as a writer after all. :D
> 
> Also, I listened to some really fucking good music while writing this, out of which the most notable ones were:
> 
> [Judas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UaozB9_ufa8&list=PLIo5FtPltu79ETiKmccsgpjVkOCvjGHTt&index=54&t=0s) by Lady Gaga  
> [The Dark Knight OST](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=94TAFSMdkvk&list=PLIo5FtPltu7_zBe7FB7A15sCDdHp-zSLb&index=63&t=0s) by James Newton Howard and Hans Zimmer  
> [breathin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kN0iD0pI3o0&list=PLIo5FtPltu79ETiKmccsgpjVkOCvjGHTt&index=55&t=0s) by Ariana Grande  
> [Mulan OST](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MilR3Z1sASY&list=PLIo5FtPltu7_zBe7FB7A15sCDdHp-zSLb&index=65) by Jerry Goldsmith  
> [Castlevania Season 1 OST](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXyGIXRcT2E&list=PLIo5FtPltu7_zBe7FB7A15sCDdHp-zSLb&index=41) by Trevor Morris  
> [Joker Trailer 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrLT0AkJkM8&list=PLIo5FtPltu7_zBe7FB7A15sCDdHp-zSLb&index=64) and[ Trailer 1 OST](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJB0Z-3gvuw&list=PLIo5FtPltu7_zBe7FB7A15sCDdHp-zSLb&index=63) by Hildur Guðnadóttir
> 
> I'd recommend playing the Dark Knight OST right after the second last hr tag for some really amazing background music. ( ˘ ³˘)♥
> 
> **CW: Graphic depictions of injury and gore, strong bloody violence. If you can't handle it, skip it, it won't hurt the narrative in any way.**

**_Trevor_ **

The day everything went to shit and everything turned upside down and his whole life changed forever, the weather was perfect. 

When he opened his eyes all he was conscious of was the intensity of the sunlight that slanted down from the windows and onto his face, lighting the insides of his eyelids to bright pink. It was just warm enough not to be hot, and tangled around Adrian and Sypha as he was, he never wanted to get out of bed. 

He'd managed to snag the middle spot on the bed the previous night, and he had to admit it was his favorite place to be; this way he could be conscious of both of them at once—Adrian's hair tickling his shoulder blades, Sypha's soft breaths on the curve of his throat, one of her arms loosely draped over his side and the smooth hardness of Adrian's chest against his back. 

They were both still asleep—a rarity, since Adrian had the tendency to get up an hour or two after sunrise, leaving his side of the bed cold and getting colder. Trevor had woken up reaching for him more than once, fingers turned upward to search for golden tresses or smooth cool skin, seeking and finding only the faint impression of where he'd lain, the scent of him lingering on the sheets. 

Now Sypha, on the other hand, always woke up last. She'd always moan and say _five more minutes, Treffy, please,_ and even half-asleep with mussed hair and a slurred voice she was too cute for him to resist, or say no. So he'd let her sleep, and then he'd get dressed and open the door to see her sitting up, still looking unreasonably sleepy. 

He gently extricated himself from the tangle of limbs they'd become over the course of the night, carefully sliding out of bed. Sypha made a soft sound in the absence of his warmth and promptly rolled into the circle of Adrian's arms, her head fitting to the curve between his neck and shoulder, still snoring softly. Adrian shifted minutely, and his breath hitched a bit, but even he didn't wake, his arms cradling Sypha's smaller body against his tenderly, even in sleep.

He merely gazed at them awhile, how the sun outlined their entwined forms in soft gold, how their chests rose and fell and how alive they were, how lucky he was to have them there. He stood up, his fingers lingering on the curve of Sypha's back as he moved away from the bed and into the bathroom.

Once he emerged in a cloud of steam, scrubbing at his damp hair with a towel he saw Adrian sitting by the window, gazing out at the estate coming to life outside, the slow banners of color unfurling in the sky above. He was framed by the sunrise, the streaks of pastel sky arcing out behind him, the pale disk that was the sun gilding his body in soft rose-tinted sunlight. He looked over at Trevor as he opened the door, and not for the first time he wondered almost helplessly how this ethereal, beautiful angelic creature could ever love him, ever even look at him. 

He didn't smile, but his eyes seemed to light up, something in his expression shifting minutely as his gaze landed on Trevor, something that broke the spell. He looked up as Trevor approached, seemingly uncaring about the fact that he didn't have a stitch of clothing on. "You woke early," he said. 

"I know. Amazing, isn't it?" He sat on the windowsill beside Adrian, abandoning vigorously scrubbing his hair, which was still dripping down the front of his shirt, turning it transparent in places. 

"It's pretty," Adrian said, turning back to the window. "This place. Too pretty sometimes."

"Yeah?" He leaned back on his hands, watching him carefully. His hair was tousled, his cheeks pink, with that still-fuzzy aura of sleep still clinging to his skin, to his long lashes. It was startling sometimes, how human he could look—and Trevor and Sypha were, he thought, privy to that side of him the way no one else was. 

"So many formations." He was still gazing out the window, and Trevor resumed trying to dry his hair. "Patterns, designs, rows and columns. All symmetrical. All in order. All perfect. Nothing out of place, nothing disrupting that order. It can be a little disconcerting sometimes."

"Tell that to the gardener," Trevor said, peeking over Adrian's shoulder at his mother's rosebushes, which ran in a neat, trimmed line directly below the window. "Or my mother."

"I often wonder how it would look if it wasn't so... kept in place," Adrian said, and he seemed unable to keep glancing towards where Trevor was rubbing ineffectually at his hair, the movement drawing his gaze involuntarily. "It would be a small kind of chaos, a little rip in the fabric of the immaculate universe of this place."

"I understood about... half of the words you just used in that sentence," Trevor said, still scrubbing. 

Adrian snorted. "I just meant it would disrupt the natural order of how things are run here—for God's sake, give that here." He held out a hand for the towel Trevor was using to dry his hair, turning away from the window. "It'll never dry if you keep going at it like that."

"Well, forgive me if I haven't got eyes to see the back of my own fucking head," Trevor said, handing the towel over obediently. Adrian gestured for him to turn around and he did, sitting on the floor against Adrian's legs with his knees drawn up to his chest, arms looped around them as Adrian carefully started to towel his hair dry. 

He shut his eyes, leaning his head back as Adrian wielded the towel expertly, his fingers occasionally brushing the nape of his neck or his back. It was wonderfully, perfectly, blissfully simple—domestic almost, sitting there on the floor, his eyes closed as Adrian dried his hair, humming ever so softly as he did, with Sypha still snoring quietly on his bed. 

Again, something in his heart clenched at the idea of it—of _them_ , both of them, all of them, in another life, another universe, staying together, living and breathing together. It was a faraway, impossible dream to him, but at least he had them. At least they were there, the only constants in his dreams and his desires. No matter what he wanted, he wanted it with them. 

"How does tonight sound?" he asked, his voice jumping a little from the way Adrian was jostling his head around. "Going back to the woods?"

"If you're fully healed, and you think you're strong enough—"

"I do."

"—then yes, tonight sounds... good, or at least as good as going back in there can be." He paused for a moment. "You... know what to do, I think, and we trust you." He lifted the towel, tossing it aside. A second later his long fingers were in Trevor's hair, carding through the damp strands. He pulled Trevor's head back so that it was resting on his knees and leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. 

He pulled away before Trevor could even kiss him back, standing up. Their fingers tangled together as he moved away, and Trevor dropped his hand with a sigh, leaning back against the wall as he watched Adrian disappear into the bathroom, the door shutting behind him. 

He sat there a long time, hearing the water running and hearing Sypha's breaths as she slept on. Eventually he stood and left the room, trusting that Adrian would be there when she woke up. He closed the door softly behind him, moving towards the dining room, where he knew his family would be. 

Life had settled into a bizarre sort of normalcy since he'd come back from wherever Aalis had dragged him, as if everything around him was a fever dream—he had no idea whether anything was real or not, though it was bright and vivid in front of his eyes, everything spinning around him in a shimmering haze. It all just seemed... too good to be true, in a way. 

All that was left was Aalis. 

He worried at his lower lip, wincing a bit as he did—he'd already bitten the skin there raw, and it'd start to bleed soon—as he walked along, his mind straying to the forest, to what was waiting for them between those trees. The truth? Death? Something so horrible they wouldn't be able to face it? He thought of how she'd been when she had let him go, oddly soft and gentle, as if he were a child. 

He'd come back to his own body after the memory, and for the longest time he thought he was deep down beneath the earth, locked in her wooden coffin, feeling her ashes and her bones against his fingers, against his skin. He remembered the constant agony of the gash on his face, how blood had run down into his eye and he'd thought he'd go blind, that he'd lose his eye. 

But then he'd heard Sypha's voice, felt Adrian's blood, and the pain had ebbed—for the first time in days the pain had lessened, and it had shocked his system enough to wake him up. He still remembered seeing Sypha leaning above him, worry in every plane of her face, her lips parting, tears shining unshed in her eyes. 

And he had known he was dead. 

A story had filtered back through all the memories in his mind, one Esther had told him when he was little. _Your angel, Trevor, they come to take you up to heaven wearing the face of the person you love the most, the person whose face you want to see as you die. It makes you happy, and that's when they carry you up to heaven._

He'd thought that she was his angel, that she was going to shut his eyes and make the world go black forever. But then she had sobbed and she'd grabbed his face and she had kissed him, and then he was back on earth, all thoughts of heaven and angels and death vanishing from his mind. 

He pulled the dining room door open, moving inside. The low buzz conversation filled the room, alongside the clink of cutlery against plates, an achingly familiar sound, one he was greeted by every morning of his life. There should have been an organized seating arrangement, he supposed, but it the only rule in their house was 'you find a chair, you sit in it'. 

As it was, he managed to snag a chair beside Marianne and across from his father, who was arrested midmotion with a fork halfway to his mouth, elbow balanced on the table as he read a book he'd propped against the jug. He didn't seem to notice Trevor sit down opposite him, his eyes glued to his book. 

Trevor reached for a plate. "Morning, dad."

He jumped, nearly upsetting the jug as he did, looking up, clearly startled. He blinked at Trevor a few times, as if to bring him into focus. "Trevor," he said, still blinking owlishly behind his glasses. "I didn't see you come in."

"I came in just a minute ago." He managed to snag a piece of toast and some eggs, and by the time he looked up again his father was absorbed in his book once more, his fork still hanging in the air. Trevor shook his head with a little grin, hoping things in this house would never change. 

"At least you tried," Marianne said from beside him, poking at her own eggs. "He hardly looked up when I talked to him. He never shuts up usually, but when he's got a book then that's it." She sighed. 

"Yeah, well." He chased a breadcrumb around his place with the tip of his spoon, abandoning it when it tipped over the rim of his plate and fell on the tablecloth. "It's easy to get used to."

"I suppose." She nibbled at her toast, raising a brow at him teasingly. "Where are Sypha and Adrian? Still asleep?"

"Sypha is." He took a bite of his own toast. "Adrian was washing up when I left. He's probably on his way here."

"Had a late night?" She grinned at him and he could feel himself blushing, and he set his toast down with a clatter, avoiding her eye. There had been, to his utter relief, minimal teasing about the fact that Trevor's boyfriend and Trevor's girlfriend were both staying in the house, and that both of them slept in his room. They toned it down when their parents were in the room, but he was dreading the moment they got him alone. 

"None of your business," he muttered, and her grin widened. 

"It was actually sort of rhetorical," she said, picking up a cup of tea and sipping daintily whilst grinning a shit-eating grin at him around the rim of her teacup. "It's not like my room is right next to yours or anything like that."

He winced, still blushing. "Shit, are we loud? You can hear?"

"Well..." She set her cup down, smirking. "Yeah, sometimes. But we don't really need to hear anything; you're not very subtle, you know."

"Oh yeah?" He tried to hide himself behind his toast but she was still smirking at him, and oh God, he'd never blushed so hard in his life. It felt like his cheeks were on fire. She nodded, leaning across the table. "All the soppy looks when you think nobody's watching, the meaningful hand touches, and God forbid I forget the way I walked in on you and Sypha making out in the library that one time—"

"What?" It came out as a surprised squeak, and he immediately felt like kicking himself right after. "You—you were—"

"Of course I left," she said, waving a hand. "You were rather busy, so you didn't see me. Though I was considering checking to make sure you both still had all your clothes on since that would get awkward if anyone saw you—"

"Oh my God, shut up," Trevor groaned. 

She laughed, bumping his shoulder with hers. "Don't get me wrong, the three of you are fucking adorable," she said. "Though you should tone down the undressing-each-other-with-your-eyes thing around mother and father, they're bound to pick up on it soon."

"Ugh." He dropped his face in his hands and she went on cheerfully, either oblivious to his turmoil or just not caring. He'd place a fair amount of money on the latter. "Of course I don't think they know about all the sex you're having—"

"Shut _up_ , someone'll hear you," he hissed, looking around, and she rolled her eyes. "Look, Trevor, every single person at this table probably knows that the three of you are—well, you know. Except maybe father." She squinted at their father across the table, who was still reading. "Though I don't think he'd realize it even if you all started stripping right in front of him—"

"Now might be a really good time to stop," he said, cutting across her, sure he was blushing all over his face now. "Really. That's... totally more than enough."

She laughed, then quieted a bit, glancing over at him. "Really, though," she said, and her voice was soft, tender almost. "We're happy for you. All of us. It's obvious that those two make you happy. You never smile more than when they're around, and you have this light in your eyes."

"You've been reading way too many romance novels, Mar."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not exaggerating. You'd know if you could see yourself. There's this look on your face whenever one of them walks into the room, like everything gets better if they're there. And—well, mother knows it too." She glanced around, then leaned closer, dropping her voice, and he leaned forward to hear her better. 

"I saw her burning all those letters we got last month," she said quietly, so that her voice wouldn't carry. "All the proposal letters. Every single one of them, into the fire. And I heard her talking to father yesterday about how she's sure you're going to marry them one day."

"Marry them? Sypha and Adrian?" He leaned back, startled. The thought had, strangely enough, not occurred to him even once over the course of the last week, and it sent him reeling for some reason. "I don't... I don't really... I haven't thought of that," he managed to get out at last, still a little stunned. 

She shrugged, apparently unaware of his shock. "Well, she thinks you will. Said something about how she doesn't know if Sypha will carry the name forward or not, since it can't well be Adrian, since, well—you know. Anyway, I wonder if his father knows about you three. Imagine how Dracula would react to his son and a Belmont..."

She was talking, but he could hardly hear her. Everything seemed to have stilled for an interminable moment, stretching out like syrup, slow and heavy. He could hear her voice, but it was far away and distorted somehow, as if she were standing at the bottom of a well, echoing and incoherent. Her earlier words were still ringing in his ears, a well of its own in his mind, the words and their insurmountable implication playing in an infinite loop in his head.

His runaway thoughts came to a screeching halt when the door opened, his gaze immediately snapping upward. His eyes registered blond hair, light blue eyes turned upward, the hint of the curve of a smile and a flash of white fang. His breath jammed in his throat and then every thought that their appearance had wiped away came smashing back into his brain, making him dizzy for a second, melding into a jumble of tangled feelings and messy notions. 

Marianne looked at him with more than a little concern, her brows drawing together. "Trevor, are you okay?"

"What?" He tore his eyes away from Adrian and Sypha, looking back at his sister with an effort. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I'm... fine."

She shrugged again, buttering her toast industriously and licking a stray smear of the stuff of her thumb once she set the knife down. She really had no idea how what she'd said had spun everything off course, did she? But it had; it was as if his world was a kaleidoscope and those words had taken it and shaken it up, and now everything was different, subtly so—he could see all the same crystals and beads, just in a different formation, a different pattern, one entirely alien yet familiar at the same time.

 _It would be a small kind of chaos, a little rip in the fabric of the immaculate universe of this place,_ he remembered Adrian saying. Now he sort of knew what he had meant. A small disruption, one that could almost be called inconsequential, but one that created ripples that were so immense that their outlines were lost in the mist that shrouded the fringes of the universe, the stars and the endless black of the sky. 

He swallowed, then glanced up at them, both of them, sitting a little ways down the table, not talking—but their elbows touched whenever one of them moved, and occasionally either of them would look sideways, just the smallest of glances, as if to make sure the other was still there, as if the sight of them reassured them in some way. 

His throat tightened when he recognized the small, almost involuntary gestures to be almost exactly how his parents often were around each other, little things that created something larger, something so all-encompassing that it seemed to curl into everything, become everything—the air you breathe, the earth you tread on, the sky that spreads above you. 

He wrenched himself away from the thoughts, feeling a sort of panic he couldn't understand rising in his chest. He had no idea why what his sister had told him had burrowed so deep in him, somewhere he had stowed away every bit of fear and apprehension about commitment, about giving yourself so entirely to another person that you were nothing without them, tying yourself to them in name and in blood and in life. 

He gazed down at his hands, lying still and useless in his lap, and decided he would stow this away too, and perhaps one day when he would actually need it again he would look back, and he would regret it, regret this moment. That was what he did best, didn't he?

He curled his hands into fists, shutting his eyes briefly. He would think about Aalis first, then this. Right now, all that mattered was her. Meeting her, putting her at rest, and setting her free. That was all that mattered. He would worry about this later, when he had the time, and the energy to. 

He grit his teeth, took a deep breath and looked up again, and thoughts of Aalis and what he had to do began to blot out the other heavier thoughts, his clenched fingers loosening as they did, his mind straying to his plan and whether it would work or not, whether he would be disillusioned. 

By the time breakfast was over and everybody stood up, his hands were entirely lax and he had already forgotten all about what Marianne had told him earlier.

* * *

The moon was full that night. 

It was a cold bright sphere hanging in the sky, untethered and floating, its light filling the sky almost as brightly as if it were a silver cork, bobbing in the inky sea of the sky and surrounded by stars. It was a clear night, cloudless and crisp, the wind brisk but not biting. Darkness and moonlight in alternating stripes of back and white pooled between the trees, laying out a path directly into the woods, one that twisted away into the undergrowth like a silver serpent. 

It was a good night, thought Trevor as they left the house, silent and watchful and tense. A good night to finish unfinished business. 

After a long, colorful argument that had involved a lot of yelling and promising and convincing, his mother had agreed to stay behind, albeit grudgingly; she had insisted on coming with them but he had put his foot down, firmly. _She'll panic if she sees you,_ he had said. _She doesn't know who you are, but you're a Belmont and if she sees you she'll panic, and then there's no predicting what she can do._

It seemed oddly final, walking into the woods with Adrian and Sypha with him, the same way they had all done all those months ago, all still with a tentative bond and a tentative idea of what might be between those trees. But now they were stronger, both as a team and in the sense that they knew what they were up against, they knew what they were walking towards. 

They reached the trees and all three of them stopped at the same time, standing in an unbroken line as if something had compelled them all to stop. The gaps in the trees yawned before them, looming above them like a demented smile, long teeth and shadows and edges. There was silence, punctuated only by the low moan of the wind through the trees.

"This is it, I suppose," Sypha said after a moment. "Isn't it?"

"Yes," Adrian said, after a slight pause. "It is."

"So is the plan still 'trust me'?" asked Sypha, her fingers curling around his, and he didn't take his eyes off the trees, the ray of moonlight where he knew she would be waiting. Because she knew him, and she knew when he would come to her. His fingers squeezed Sypha's back and it was almost tangible, the relief that the gesture gave him, knowing she—and Adrian—were there and close, that they would have his back every step of the way. 

"Yeah," he said. "It is."

"Okay," she said softly, and he felt Adrian's fingers tangle with his other hand, their palms fitting together, the familiarity of both their touches grounding him—and they were all linked now, standing in front of the trees hand in hand, gazing at the darkness that lay ahead. 

He remembered that night so many nights ago, in the library and going to face her the first time, how sure he had been that everything was going to go wrong. So much had been different; he hadn't had them then, not like this. He remembered telling Sypha she meant so much more than everyone thought she did, including herself, remembered kissing Adrian pressed against the shelves and books, feeling their spines against his own, feeling Adrian's hands, remembered tasting his desperation and longing. 

Now there was nothing but the wind and the moonlight and the darkness, nothing but their hands in his and a still calm in his heart that told him that what he was going to do would work. Because he knew the truth, the truth he hadn't known the last time he had faced her. 

He tilted his face up to the moon, letting its liquid silver light cascade over him. Yes, it was a good night. 

"Let's finish this," he said. "One last time, let's finish this."

And together, hand in hand they walked into the trees.

* * *

With no clouds to hinder it, the moon poured its light through the gap in the trees, strong and unfiltered. As it was, it was easier than ever to find it, slicing through the darkness as it did, bright and incongruous and oddly sinister, an exotic poisonous flower blooming in a bed of familiar weeds. 

The wind blew through the trees, ruffling his hair, resting its cool fingers on his cheeks. He turned his head to catch it, let it kiss his skin. It carried with it the faint smell of decay and rebirth, the cloying rot of nature and the heaviness of cool earth. He shut his eyes as it rushed around them, chilling his skin and curling between them. It flitted away a few seconds later, playful and frivolous, dancing between the trees and deeper into the woods. 

He opened his eyes, and she was there. 

Tonight she was whole again, skin so pale it was almost translucent in the moonlight, her thick, long hair a stark contrast to her pallor, hanging down till her waist in a voluminous sheet. Her dress billowed around her though the wind had already passed, blowing up around her legs like the petals of an orchid. Her feet were bare as they usually were, and didn't quite reach the ground. 

The only thing that shattered the illusion of pristine perfection was the tear in her dress, the bloody edges ragged and hanging off her arm. She was looking at him—not at Adrian or Sypha, only him—her expression neutral, blank almost. 

"Hello, Trevor," she said. 

"Hello, Aalis."

"Are you here to kill me?" she asked. 

"No," he said, honestly. "No, I'm not."

They merely looked at each other, a long while. She tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, and her hair cascaded over one shoulder, slipping over the fabric of her dress. Everything seemed to have vanished, and it was only her and him, and nobody else. She was standing in the ray of light, her eyes bright and cold. 

"You said it yourself," he said. "You're already dead. I'm not here to redo what our family did two hundred years ago."

"Then why are you here?" She drifted closer, blinking her large blue eyes at him. The moonlight slid off her body as she passed through it, and he thought he could see the remnants of old scars on her body, the gaping wounds decay and death gouged into her skin after the life left her body.

"I'm here," he said, stepping forward, Adrian and Sypha's hands falling out of his own, "to finish it. To give you what you came back for."

He heard a soft exhale of breath behind him. "Trevor, what...?" Adrian's voice started, and he held a hand out without turning back, hoping they understood. _Trust me._

He fell silent and Trevor took another step forward. "I know why you came back," he said, his heart slamming in his chest now, anticipation and fear and apprehension and _God, I hope this doesn't end up being bullshit and I end up killing us all._

"I know why you came back, and I know why you've been killing all those people," he said. "Some part of you is still fae, some part of your magic is harnessed to the same source as theirs. There's no way you'd be able to be this powerful if you were just a memory preserves for a predestined purpose."

Her face flickered, sometimes a rotting corpse's and sometimes a whole young girl's. Her eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, and her full cupid's bow lips curved up in a faint, humorless smile. She said nothing, however, merely looking at him. 

"You won't be killing any more people," he said. "You're not going to leave this place."

"I will do as I wish," she hissed, her form flickering into a decaying specter again, then back again. "I will bathe in the blood of the people who murdered me and I will take their souls back with me to the fires of the afterlife. I will not burn alone."

"No," he said. "Nobody is going to burn. Not tonight."

She snarled, her fingers clenching into fists. He remembered those hands, raking down his face and into his eye, remembering feeling his own blood fill his eye like tears, running down his face and covering everything in a smear of red. "Do not presume to tell me what I can do," she said. "The Belmont line dies tonight."

"No," he said. 

Anger exploded across her face and he hardly had any time to react before she was upon him, slashing and swiping at him with her claws and snarling. He moved back, not lifting a hand to defend himself. Nor did he need to; her blows were shallow, ineffectual almost, opening up scratches in his skin at best. 

He ducked another of her blows and then she ceased her attack, breathing hard, a wild sort of desperation in her eyes. He held a hand out as if to ward her off, hearing his own heartbeat in his ears, rushing and roaring. "Stop," he said, breathing hard. "This isn't what you want."

"How do you know anything about what I want?" She sounded helpless rather than angry now, her hands shaking. "How could you possibly know anything about me?"

"Because I was there," he said. "You showed me—showed me everything. And I didn't just see you, I became you. I saw everything, felt everything. I know too much now, Aalis. I know exactly what it is you want."

Her lips parted and she lowered herself to the ground, her feet finally meeting the earth. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide, skin crawling over the gaping, ragged wounds in her body even as he watched, turning her whole again. Her eyes were roving over his face desperately, as if he held the key to every question she had yearned to know the answer to. 

"You... you were there," she said. "You saw him. Saw them—what they did."

"I did. But—"

A sudden, gurgling and almost triumphant shout in the trees made him jump, and he turned, startled, towards the sound. Aalis turned as well, an equally surprised look on her face. He saw a shadow in the trees, one that lurched closer and closer, and his heart dropped like a stone when he recognized it, its gait and its height and its figure. _No, not now. Any time but now, please, God._

But then he heard Sypha's gasp, heard Adrian swear, harsh and startled, and he knew that his pleading was fruitless. The figure stumbled into the circle of light that spilled down from the heavens and all Trevor could think was _fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, not him, not now—_

"I knew you would come here," said the now ragged, scratchy voice of the archdeacon—well, Trevor supposed he wasn't an archdeacon anymore, but still—as he rounded on Sypha, the horrifying, gruesome burns all over his face thrown into sharp relief in the moonlight, making them look uglier, darker. 

"I knew you would try and take everything away from me," he snarled, and oh God, the past few days in the forest hadn't been kind to him; the burns hadn't been treated properly, and there were scratches in the ragged skin, lines of fresh blood all over his cheeks and forehead. "I knew you wanted to make it worse, make me sink even lower—"

"No, it's not like that," Sypha was saying, moving backwards, a hand held out. Aalis' eyes were wide, darting between the deacon and Sypha, as if connecting the dots. "You need to get out of here, you need to leave," Sypha was saying, desperate and pleading. "Please, you'll be hurt, you could—"

"Don't act like you give a damn about what happens to me," he sneered, and her eyes flicked for a moment to Aalis, standing behind him, then quickly moved back to him, but he had already caught the movement. He turned fluidly, his eyes alighting on Aalis, pale and ghostly in the light. His eyes widened. 

"Get out of here!" Sypha yelled, a hand fisting in the back of his shirt and pulling as if to get him to move by force. There was earnest fear in her voice, as if she really did care about what happened to this man even if he had done something so horrible to her that it couldn't be forgiven. He didn't budge, however, his eyes fixed on Aalis. 

"This is the thing that's been killing the people?" He laughed, throwing off Sypha's grip with ease, lurching forward towards Aalis and Trevor. "This little girl?"

"Please!" Sypha's voice cracked. "Don't—"

"I'm going to take your head back to the church," he snarled, still moving forward. Aalis was entirely still, expressionless, watching him. "I'm going to kill you and then I'll be welcomed back and then I'll burn that witch at the stake and I'll burn her whole family too for what she did to me—"

He reached them, and Trevor was about to throw an arm out, shove him back, get him away from her—but he was a hairsbreadth too late. He reached out, a hand falling onto Aalis' shoulder. 

And Aalis started to change. 

Her skin seemed to melt off her bones, her hair thinning and growing matted, clumped. Her face crumpled, her bones decaying and her body degenerating right before their eyes. The spotless white gown she wore turned muddy and streaked with blood, her nails growing cracked and bent. Her smile was a hideous slash of teeth and bone, splitting her skull in half in a grisly mess. 

The deacon cried out, stumbling backward, and she moved toward him, still grinning terribly. "You want to kill me, boy?" she asked, and eerily enough her voice was still the same, deep and rich, as were her eyes, cold and blue. "You want to take my head back to your church?"

"What are you?" he demanded, still scrambling backwards, and Trevor moved forward but to do _what_ he had no idea—

She spread her arms wide, and the air charged suddenly, the hairs on his arms rising. "I," she said, her eyes glowing a ghostly blue, "am the bringer of your deliverance."

The no-longer-archdeacon froze, his eyes, wide and surrounded by broken, charred skin, going flat and dull suddenly. His body went slack, his hands falling to his sides. Behind him, Sypha and Adrian were watching, their own eyes wide, Adrian gripping Sypha's arm as if to hold her back. 

Aalis' eyes filled with fire and magic, glowing with the raw energy of it. She was suspended a few feet above the ground, her hair lifting up off her shoulders and around her head in a hypnotic raven crown. A second too late Trevor realized what was going to happen and his breath caught in his throat as he lurched forward, calling her name, telling her to stop—but he could have been talking to a corpse for all the reaction she gave. 

The deacon stood straight, swaying a little on his feet, eyes fixed on Aalis as if he was a lonely traveler in the desert dying of thirst and she was an oasis, as if she were a miracle. She lifted a hand, her face impassive and still, and his eyes tracked the movement, still flat and dull. 

"Fate has brought you to me," she said, and her voice reverberated with pure energy, magic and wild enchantment. "Your sacrifice will unbind me from this place at last, freeing me from the prison of my coffin beneath the ground. Your heart will set me free."

"A blood sacrifice," he heard Sypha whisper. "So... that's why she's been killing those boys. Taking their hearts to give her vitality."

 _"Fuck,"_ he heard Adrian hiss, and Trevor felt inclined to agree. "She never seemed to get stronger with each kill... how could we not have known?"

"We can't let her kill him," Trevor said, his eyes fixed on Aalis' glowing form, her wild eyes. "She'll be able to leave this place if she does—and my family—"

The deacon reached out a hand as well, fingers reaching out, and Trevor saw with a sort of detached horror and disgust that his fingernails were caked with old blood and patches of charred skin, dried to a rusty, dirty brown, crescents of blood and skin and burned bits crusted beneath his fingernails. So those scratches on his face hadn't been some woodland animal like Trevor had thought.

"Give me your heart," Aalis said, her voice ringing through the trees, making the leaves shiver with her power. "And I will send you home."

The deacon lifted his hands to his own chest, his eyes blank and empty. Trevor saw Adrian free Sypha's arm and she lifted a hand, as if to call forth the fire that was the only thing that frightened Aalis, the only thing that could stop this and save the deacon—but Aalis's eyes flicked briefly to where Sypha was moving forward and she stumbled, falling to her knees with a cry of pain.

Adrian dropped to his knees beside her, taking her hands, and even from where he was standing Trevor could see two deep cuts in each of her palms, slashes cut in the shape of crosses, weeping blood that dripped down her wrists. She lifted a hand, her thumb meeting her pinky and ring fingers in a circle, her index and middle fingers extended to call on her magic—but nothing happened. 

"No!" she cried, and she struggled to get up but Adrian pulled her back, shaking his head. His lips moved, but Trevor couldn't hear the words. 

Aalis moved forward, her concentration resealing as she gazed directly at the deacon, whose fingers were poised at his chest, right where his heart should have been. She smiled at him, and it was less a smile and more a predatory bare of teeth, one that melted into a snarl as her fingers curled into a tight fist. 

"Tear yourself open," she said, "and give it to me."

His broken, bloody fingernails scrabbled at his chest and Trevor moved forward, panic rising in his chest, panic and fear and nausea choking him. He had taken exactly one step when he rammed solidly into an invisible wall, one that sent a shock tingling down his spine as he fell backward, gasping for breath. 

He heard a horrible, squelching tearing sound, one not dissimilar to the sound of tearing paper. He scrambled to his feet, his heartbeat taking flight like a frightened bird, soaring higher and higher, faster and faster. He put both palms flat against the barrier of magic and energy that was restraining him, desperately. He shoved with all his might, but it didn't budge, merely pushing him back again. 

He saw a spray of blood spurt from where the deacon had been standing, and his stomach turned over as he saw it splatter onto Aalis, spraying onto her pale skin. The deacon's hands were wet with his own blood, scarlet gloves of it all over his arms. His face was still empty and blank, even as his own hands gouged his chest open. Trevor couldn't look away, gruesome and grisly as it was, rooted to the spot with shock and panic and an inability to do anything else, watching him tear himself apart. 

Sypha's eyes were wide as well, and she was watching, on her knees, clutching Adrian, her cut hands still running with fresh blood. She didn't even appear to notice, however, despair and helplessness in every line of her face as she looked on. Another gout of blood erupted from the deacon's chest and Adrian turned his face away, pressing his cheek to Sypha's shoulder. 

Her eyes met Trevor's, and he knew that no matter how much she might have wanted to, she couldn't look away. Her jaw tightened and she swallowed, but before he could try to say something or nod or do _something_ to reassure her even if nothing could possibly reassure her about this—she had already looked away from him, back to Aalis and the dying man standing in front of her.

He wondered with a sort of detached horror if he was already dead, half-torn open as he was. Bile rose in his throat as he saw the damage that had been done; his chest was a bloody crater, tissue and muscle torn to pulps by his fingers. Blood ran down the gaping, widening hole in his body in rivers of scarlet, and the grass underfoot was stained red, a growing pool of it collecting at his feet and soaking his shoes. 

His nails slid across his bloody skin, skidding through the slick, viscous gore that coated his hands. Five long parallel scratches opened up on either side of the wound, and Trevor remembered how the other bodies had looked, with those nail scratch-marks all around the place where their hearts should have been. He swallowed down his nausea as he realized why, now. 

"Aalis," he said—or, at least, he tried to say it. His voice was scratchy and hoarse, cracking in the middle. "Stop. Don't... don't, please..." 

But she paid him no heed, her eyes wide and glowing, mad almost. What little humanity he had tried to wring from her had evaporated, and she was pure wild magic now, an uncontrollable force of otherworldly energy. Nothing could stop her now, not when she couldn't hear him, when she wouldn't listen to him. 

He heard another sickening tearing sound, then a sharp _snap_ , followed by a loud crunch as the deacon's fingers broke through the last layer of muscle and sinew and skin. More blood ran down his hands, down his wrists and dripped from his elbows, splashing down into the widening pool around him. It was running down the slight incline of the forest floor, and he wondered distantly if all that blood would be washed away by the river. 

There was still no pain on his face, even as his hands broke through his ribs with another nauseating crunch. Trevor gagged as his slick, bloody fingers finally found his heart, which was, to Trevor's horror, still beating, pulsing irregularly, blood gushing with each one. The deacon's fingers closed around it. 

Trevor had to look away then, squeezing his eyes shut as he heard a stomach-churning, wet snapping sound, a faint thud, a splash, then silence. He cracked a tentative eye open, and what he saw nearly made him turn away and run as fast as he could in the opposite direction, made him want to burn this out of his memory forever until no trace of it remained. 

The deacon was standing in a pool of his own blood—no one who had lost that much could live, or even be alive, for that matter—and it was everywhere, all over his arms and dripping down his chest, streaking his face and turning his clothes sodden and scarlet. His eyes were still open, dull gray and lifeless, and his hands were held out, extended towards Aalis. Cradled in both his palms lay his own heart, dead now, blood slicking its surface and dripping down his hands. 

His chest was entirely gone, torn to shreds by his own hands, a ragged, gaping hole where skin and muscle used to be. He could see the pale spokes of his ribs, snapped and hanging out of the wound, startlingly white against all the blood. His chest was empty, his lungs no longer supported by his ribs, presumably floating around in the puddle of blood around him. 

Aalis lowered herself to the ground, walking towards him. The blood didn't touch her, didn't stain her clothes or her skin as she did, her face upturned towards the deacon's as she stood in front of him, looking for all the world like a lost young woman, her eyes wide and innocent. The only thing that shattered the illusion was the deacon in front of her, holding his heart out for her to take, drenched head to toe in his own blood. 

She took his heart from him, gently almost, carefully. The moment she did he staggered, falling to his knees with a splash and a spray of blood. He slumped sideways, eyes still open, his face still expressionless and blank, as if the only thing that had held his corpse upright was Aalis. He rolled onto his back in the grass, in the blood, and lay still. 

The invisible barrier that had held Trevor back vanished suddenly and he stumbled forward, nearly slipping on all the blood that had gathered there, shining almost black in the moonlight. He caught himself with a gasp, lurching backwards and fetching up against a tree nearby, his fingers digging into the bark hard enough for his nails to ache. 

Aalis lifted her head from where it had been bent over the heart in her hands, her eyes closing. Sypha and Adrian were still huddled on the ground a little ways away, and Adrian had lifted his face from where he had turned it away into Sypha's hair, his eyes wide. She was still-faced and expressionless, a sort of frightened confusion in her eyes, as if she didn't know what she had just seen. 

Aalis breathed deeply, her eyes still closed. Her hands clenched around the bloody, clotted organ in her fingers, and it turned to liquid in her hands, scarlet and dripping, the color of blood. It wasn't quite blood, however; it wasn't thick enough, and it had an unnatural sheen to it that made him wonder. It dripped through her fingers, falling onto the forest floor, where the earth beneath her feet immediately sucked it up as if it were unimaginably thirsty. 

She gasped, her eyes snapping open, filling with white light. A blast of hot, dry wind tore through the trees, lifting her dress. Her feet left the ground, her head tilted back, her lips parting in a soundless scream. White light fissured beneath her skin, cracks of it like lightning forking through her veins. Trevor lifted an arm in front of his eyes to stop it from blinding him, squeezing his eyes shut, hoping Adrian and Sypha had done the same. 

The blaze died down as suddenly as it had erupted, and he lowered his arm, breathing hard, his eyes falling on Aalis, standing between the trees, directly below the ray of moonlight. 

She looked no different but for the residual traces of magic in her veins, her eyes glowing eerily. Her feet just brushed the ground again, and he noticed that the blood—well, most of it, anyway—was gone, siphoned off the grass and the earth, from the dead deacon's hands and fingers. Only the blood from the wound remained, caking his clothes and staining the surrounding grass. 

Aalis shuddered out a breath, looking up, her gaze alighting on Trevor. At first there was no recognition in her eyes, but slowly she appeared to grow aware, her face softening and her hands loosening from where they had been clenched at her sides. He saw her swallow, saw her look at Adrian and Sypha crouched behind her, saw her slowly realize what had happened, saw her realize that she was free. 

"It is done," she whispered. "I am no longer bound to the soil my parents buried me beneath. I am no longer bound by the faerie magic that took hold of my dying soul." She lowered herself to the ground, taking a slow, tentative step. She picked her skirt up with her hands, bunching the fabric in her fingers to bare her ankles. 

She took another step, then another, then another. She laughed, and it was a giddy, manic sound. She looked back over her shoulder, directly at Trevor, and then she disappeared. 

Trevor scrambled to his feet, stumbling over to Adrian and Sypha, still crouched on the bloodstained grass. The moment he slid to his knees beside them Sypha grabbed his shirt, dragging him towards them. They collided in a jumble of harsh breaths and shaking hands and sweat-slicked skin, all holding each other so tightly it hurt, a tight little knot of arms and shoulders and hips, trying to reign in the shock and the disbelief of the last few minutes. 

"We have to find her, we need to get her back," Sypha was saying, her voice hardly a whisper, shaking and trembling. "We can't let her—she could—"

"She could be anywhere," Adrian said, his fingers twisting in the back of Trevor's shirt, the wings of his collarbones digging into his shoulder. "We don't know where she—"

He stiffened suddenly, going rigid. He lifted his head, like a wolf that had sensed its prey. His eyes narrowed to amber slits, darting back and forth wildly. 

"What?" Trevor asked, his own hand bunched in the fabric of Adrian's shirt at his hip. "What is it?"

"I smell smoke," he said. "I smell fire. It's coming from..." He looked over Sypha's shoulder and into the trees beyond, the path they had walked to get there. "West," he said finally. "It's coming from the west."

Trevor felt the world yanked out from underneath his feet, and he gripped them both all the tighter because of it, his mouth going dry as he felt the blood drain from his face. "The house," he said, the words tripping over and under each other in his haste to get them out. "The house—my family—"

"Come on." Sypha stood, yanking them both to their feet. "Quickly, before she can let it go too far. Before she can—" She caught herself with a shuddering breath, pulling them upright. "Let's go."

They plunged into the waiting dark, leaving the ray of moonlight and the body of the archdeacon behind, the light turning his blood to black rivulets that streamed downhill, where they joined the river and thinned to threads, then were washed away by the current entirely, leaving nothing behind but the stains of red on the grass.

* * *

The house was burning. 

They burst out of the woods breathless, then stopped dead at the line of trees where the estate began, in front of the gates. Beyond, all he could see was fire, consuming everything in sight, bursting from the windows and up the walls, curling beneath the door and blowing it out in a dry explosion. 

"No," Trevor gasped, and he ran forward, shoving the gates open and running inside blindly, not caring if he burned here, because if his family was inside then there was no way they could be alive, not when the fire was everywhere, eating everything and devouring the place he had grown up and the only home he had ever had. 

"Trevor!" He felt strong hands—inhumanly strong hands—pull him back, crushing him against a lean, muscled chest. "Stop," Adrian's voice said in his ear. "You'll get yourself killed."

"Let me go, you bastard!" He thrashed, kicking and struggling, but Adrian was too strong. Helpless tears sprang to his eyes, making his chest heave. "I have to—they're still in there—please—"

"Trevor," Adrian said, his voice still and steady, hands still gripping his arms tightly. "Calm down—"

"Don't _fucking_ tell me to calm down, my family is in there, you son of a bitch!" He thrashed again, his breath whistling out from between his teeth. "Let me go!"

 _"Trevor,"_ Adrian said again, pulling him tighter against him. "Look."

He looked—and his lungs filled so rapidly he thought they might burst. Adrian's hands freed him at last and then he was running, running towards them because this meant they were safe, it meant that they were alive and the whole fucking house could burn down and that didn't matter as long as they were safe. 

They were standing at the edge of the house, watching it go up in flames, watching it burn. All eight of them, huddled together, just out of the line of fire. They looked up as he careened towards them, and then he crashed into them, a tangle of arms and legs and long hair and their voices saying his name, asking _are you all right_ and _what happened_ and _what's going on_.

"I thought you were still inside," Trevor said, and distantly he was aware that there were tears on his face and in his voice, but he didn't care. "I thought you were—" His voice choked off and his father's arms came around him tightly, and all he could think was _they're safe, they're safe, they're safe._ That was all that mattered. 

"I still have to finish this," he said once he could speak again and the overwhelming relief wasn't choking him into immobility. "She has to be set free."

"No," his mother said, her voice shaking. "No, it's too dangerous—"

"Mother, no," Vayenne said, her elegant dress torn and her face streaked with soot, her eyes hard and firm. "If this doesn't end tonight, it never will. She's here, Trevor." She turned to him, stoic and brave and calm, and fuck, she would have made such a good hunter. Better than him, even. All of them would have. 

"She's here, and she's not going to stop." She stepped up to him, putting a bruising hand on his shoulder. "She's in the house, I saw her. Go, quickly, and finish it."

He nodded, and even though he'd gotten taller than her last year she'd always seem taller to him, his fearless older sister who had always looked out for him. He took in a deep breath, shutting his eyes. "Okay." He opened his eyes again, and his fingers slid to his belt, closing over the hilt of a blade. 

"Stay with Adrian and Sypha. Don't be seen. Stay out of sight, I'll come back. I promise." He looked back at them all, sooty and streaked with sweat and grime, their faces grim and concerned, but still hard, resolving. He swallowed down all the words he wanted to say and turned towards the burning house, exhaling shakily. 

Something flashed out at him through the flames, winking at him like a spark of sun running off the edge of a blade. He stepped forward, eyes scanning the fire, roving and desperate—and then he saw her. Flitting among the tongues of fire like a specter wreathed in flame. Her eyes found his, and then she moved deeper into the fire, vanishing from sight. 

He moved forward, towards the burning manor. He could hardly recognize the place, consumed with fire as it was. He heard someone shout his name, but he didn't look back, picking his way over the wrecked front steps and porch and in front of the door. He looked inside, where all he could see was fire and collapsing beams, bursting glass and cracking wood. 

Steeling himself and taking a deep breath, he walked inside. 

The flames surrounded him immediately, rushing around him, roaring and breathing pure heat onto him. Yet he felt nothing, no heat, nor did he feel the smoke that was thick in the air. He looked back just as the front door collapsed in a pile of kindling and steaming metal, cutting off his only means of escape. 

He moved forward, still feeling nothing, still shielded from the ire of the flame that was everywhere, surrounding him and destroying everything. He walked through the burning house, through torn tapestries and slashed drapes, charred paintings and melting jewelry, half-eaten away tables and chairs and doors. 

It all collapsed around him, yet he walked on. 

He found her in what used to be his room, the windows blown out and the bed aflame, his dresser burned beyond repair and the floor crumbling apart. She was standing in the middle of the room, her face tilted upwards, fire dancing across her skin. She looked at him, the flames writhing inside her eyes.

"This used to be my room," she said. "I thought perhaps they boarded it up, or barred it from use, or told you not to go inside." She turned opaque eyes to him. "Instead they gave it to their youngest son."

"We are so similar, you and I," she said softly, drawing closer. "Our lives, they run parallel. So close, but never touching." She reached out a hand, fingers dangling in the air as if to trace out a path, a path both of them had walked upon. "We gave our hearts to those we could not, and to us the woods were always more of a home than these walls."

"No," he said. "This place was always home to me. Not the woods. The woods was just a road. It always led back here."

"That was then," she said, baring her teeth. "This is now. Now, there is no 'here'. This house deserves to be in ashes and nothing more. And it will be your family's tomb, just as the forest was mine."

"No, it won't," he said. "That's not what you want, and you know it."

She said nothing, and he stepped forward. "I know why you're here," he said. "And it's not to kill me, or my family."

Still she didn't speak, merely watching him. "You had so many chances to do it," he said. "So many chances to kill me. When you dragged me to wherever you dragged me, when Adrian and I came into the forest that night, and even today. Even now, here, this fire—you're protecting me. You're not going to kill me. You could have done it, but you didn't."

He took another step forward, and her eyes were wide now, cornered almost. "Tonight, you let my family get away. You let them get to safety, even as you burned the house. You don't want to kill any of us, Aalis."

"Then what do I want?" she whispered.

"I saw everything you thought," he said. "I _thought_ everything you thought. You loved your family. You loved them too much to wish anything bad on them. But there was one thing that you told yourself, over and over."

He took another step towards her and now there were tears shining in her eyes, making them shimmer with reflected fire. "You wanted them to _understand,"_ he said. "You wanted them to know what they did to you, you wanted them to understand, and you wanted... you wanted to forgive them."

Tears were running down her cheeks now, and she was gasping, little sobbing breaths. "You just wanted to forgive them for what they did, you wanted to die knowing that they were sorry and that they loved you."

She let out another sob, her eyes swimming. He reached into his belt, fingers fitting once more around the hilt of the sword he had kept there. He drew it in one smooth movement, its blade reflecting the writhing fire that surrounded them. Its spotless, perfect edges caught the light, making the name engraved down the middle leap out, bright and clear. 

_Devil's Advocate._

She froze like a deer caught in searchlights, her eyes tracking the blade as he drew it. He held it up, letting the light wash over it. She stepped forward, reaching out a hand as if to touch it, then drew her fingers away, holding her hand to her chest as if she thought the sword would hurt her.

He swallowed hard, laying the sword flat on both his palms so that it was lying on his hands like an offering. He went down onto one knee before her, holding the sword out, fingers closed over the blade, so tightly blood welled in his palms. He bowed his head, letting his hair fall over his eyes, hiding her from view. 

"Papa?" she asked. 

He shut his eyes, closing his fingers tighter over the blade. "We wronged you," he said. "We hurt you more than anything has ever hurt you. We were blind in our ignorance and our bigotry, and we were wrong to doubt that love is love no matter who holds your heart."

He had no idea where the words were coming from, but again, like that night he had first retrieved the blade, he felt something in its depths stirring restlessly. He felt it again now, its tendrils seeping out of the blade and into his hands, curling up his arms and into his heart. He was breathing hard, the words spilling from his mouth of their own accord. 

"We should have listened to you," he said. "Instead we killed you, we buried you and we acted as if there was no Aalis Belmont. But there was. And there always will be. It is us who will be forgotten, in our hatred and our anger and our unjustified cruelty. And for that, I'm sorry."

He felt hot tears spilling from beneath his lashes, tears that were and weren't his own. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry that we did this to you, we allowed this to happen. In our blindness we couldn't see that our pride was not in our purity, it was in our peace. We violated that peace. We violated our family's notions of honor. For that, I'm sorry."

"Papa," she whispered, "I'm sorry too, Papa. I... I killed all those people. I thought I hated you for so long... but I didn't. I don't. I'm sorry, Papa." She was crying; he could hear her sobs, her wet gasps for breath. "I dishonored our family. I became what we hunted. I put such a burden on the shoulders of my descendant. I tortured them all so..."

"If you come with me," he said, "it will all be forgiven. If you come with me now, then you can leave this world behind—this world that brought you so much pain and suffering. The family is in good hands, capable hands. You don't need to stay here any longer. Your soul can finally go on."

"Papa," she said softly, and finally Trevor looked up, looked up into the face of the woman who had changed so much, who had done so much, simply by loving as she did and as she chose. Her eyes darted all over his face, and the softest of smiles curved her lips. Slowly, she reached out and closed her hands over his, over the blade clutched in his fingers.

"I forgive you," she said. 

He let go of the blade, drawing his hands back, and she clutched it to her chest, fingers closing over the hilt. She tilted her face upward, her eyes locking on the fire that still raged overhead and all around them. Slowly, deliberately, she turned the sword in her hands, resting the point of the blade between her breasts, right where her heart was. 

She took in a breath—then she drove the sword home. 

It pierced through cloth and skin and bone, the hilt slamming up against her chest as the tip burst out her back in a spray of blood—red blood. Not black. Human blood. Her lips parted, tears gathering in her eyes, which fell directly onto Trevor, even as tears of pain spilled down her cheeks. Her eyes locked onto his, where they stopped and rested, and there was an endless lifetime of regret in them. 

One of her hands unclenched from the blade's hilt, slick and slippery with blood, and she held it out towards him. He reached back for her, his mind taking him back to the first night he had ever seen her, reaching out to touch her as though he had known her. And he had, all along. He just hadn't known it then. 

Their fingers touched, and for half a moment he thought he saw a soft, wistful smile curl her lips. Then she shut her eyes, her head tipping backward.

And the world vanished in a flash of white.

* * *

They found him kneeling, in the remains of the charred skeleton of the house, completely unharmed, with a bloody sword clutched in his hands. There was nobody there but him, crouching alone in the remains of his room, gazing down at the blood on the blade he was holding. 

They stood a little ways away, all of them, giving him the space they knew he needed, saying nothing. Finally he stood up, the sword still clenched tightly in his fingers. He came towards them, his face streaked with grime and blood and soot, stripes of clear skin standing out where the tears had rolled down his cheeks, wiping away the dust. Ash clogged his boots, covered his hair, settled on his clothes. 

They all looked back at him, grim-faced and silent, knowing that words could not fill the empty spaces that stretched between them. Finally Trevor took a deep breath, nodding down at the sword in his hands. 

He looked up, looking at his family, at Adrian and Sypha, all standing together, and seeing them there like that was what made him know that it was all finally over, that there would be no more nightmares, that from then onward there would only be peace.

He cleared his throat, then glanced out at the forest, deep beneath which lay one last stepping stone. "I need a shovel," he said, his voice scratchy and hoarse. "I've got a grave to dig."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really really proud of this chapter. I felt really good after writing it. I felt like this was the crowning moment for this story, hence the name of the chapter itself. I'd love it if you told me what you think of it yourself. :)


End file.
